Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall
by Queen of Kaos
Summary: What if Sam hadn't been quite so willing to run off and help Dean find John in the Pilot? I hope it's a new enough twist to be less than completely cliche. Rated for language, drug use, and some mild sexual situations.
1. Unexpected Reunion

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: I wasn't going to post this - to be totally truthful, I'd pretty much given up on posting in general. But a friend enjoyed it and asked me to post it, so I'm givin' it a go. At least with the first chapter. Let's just see if I get sacrificed, ripped apart, or completely ignored before I put the following nine up to the scrutiny, shall we? Alright . . . Enjoy!_

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When he had decided to drive to Palo Alto, California and beg for his little brother's help in finding their missing father, Dean Winchester had fully expected to find Sam living in the same Stanford dorm room that he'd been in the last time Dean had seen him. He knew that two years had passed, but what the hell did he know about college? Outside of a few drunken coeds in bars over the years, he hadn't really brought himself up to speed on the way things worked at America's universities. That had always been Sam's thing, not his.

But the kid that answered the door in the dorm had never even heard of Sam Winchester. Undeterred, Dean made his way to the admissions office and convinced the perky, young brunette there that he really needed to find his little brother. That there was a family emergency, and he couldn't get Sam to answer the phone. He wasn't exactly lying when he told her that he was about a step and a half away from panicking, that something could have happened to Sam, and that he would never forgive himself if he didn't find the younger man.

Address in hand, Dean had steeled himself against the onslaught of doubts that pounded through his brain as he drove the few miles between his motel and Sam's apartment. He'd driven straight there after leaving the admissions office, and there had been no sign of Sam. But the mere sight of the building was enough to make him rethink his plan of attack. Dean had seen his fair share of unsavory places in his lifetime, but knowing that his little brother was making a home in this one gave him a shiver he hadn't expected. It was so unlike Sam.

It wasn't the simple, brick facade that bothered him, or even the fact that most of the cars in the parking lot were rust-riddled and littered with dents and cracked glass. It wasn't really the chain-link fence that surrounded the structure that bothered him, either. But the shifty-looking characters that milled about the front door and various, shaded corners of the lot made him pull his pearl-handled revolver from the glove box and tuck it safely into the waistband of his jeans when he returned around midnight.

With a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that his car remained untouched by the time he returned, Dean headed toward the building. Head bowed, he felt the gravel crunch beneath his heavy boots as he kept his sights low and tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible. It irritated him more than anything that Sam would live in a place that just _looked_ haunted. And while Dean hadn't found anything in the building's past history that would lead him to believe it was unsafe, it still spiked his 'heebie-jeebie' meter a little more than he would have liked.

Over-riding the electronic key pad on the front door wasn't hard for a guy like Dean, and he took the stairs up to the second level cautiously, as though something might jump out of a random apartment and try to suck his soul out through his ear. The ease with which he picked Sam's front door lock just pissed him off further. A child could have let himself into the apartment. And where was the salt at the door? For a kid genius, Sam could be dumb as a rock sometime.

The protectiveness he'd always felt for his little brother wasn't something that Dean liked to talk about, but in his own mind, he could admit that it was the reason for his anger. It was his job to protect little Sammy, always had been, but sometimes Sam made it so damn hard to do his job.

Casting his eyes around the small kitchen, Dean couldn't help raising his eyebrows in surprise. He had always imagined that Sam would live in some townhouse, or even some modern, ultra-douchey loft apartment. There would be bookcases and stereo equipment, and furniture made of leather. Lamps and other girlie lighting, maybe. Neat. Sam had always been a clean-freak about his side of the rooms they shared as kids, so Dean had expected a nearly sterile living environment.

But the kitchen was old, with cracked linoleum floors and peeling plaster on the walls. The edge of the sink had once been white, but was now stained an unappetizing piss-yellow, and piled high with dirty, food-crusted dishes. Beer bottles littered the table and Dean had to step over a pizza box to enter the room soundlessly. The stove was caked with grease and what he hoped was dried up pasta sauce. The state of that one room alone was enough to send Dean's anger fading into abject worry. This wasn't Sam.

He stopped at the kitchen table to thumb through a stack of mail. Bills stamped 'final notice,' were addressed to Jessica Moore, but it was the letter emblazoned with the Stanford logo that caught Dean's eye. A quick skim told him that a.) the higher-ups in the Ivy Leagues were way too damn wordy, and b.) Sam was losing his academic scholarship due to his declining grades, and lack of attending class. And the worry edged toward fear.

With whispering steps, Dean moved into the living room as the lump rose in his throat. A small, black and white television sat on the floor near the window, an infomercial droning on from it's place amidst a protective ring of dvds and a few more beer bottles. The ratty furniture was almost as depressing as the heavy stench of smoke that curled around Dean and threatened to draw a choke from his rapidly-constricting throat. _What the hell, Sammy?_ The thought flitted through his brain, but before it had time to settle, he heard low voices from somewhere down the hall.

Dean pressed himself against the wall, refusing to let himself think about the state of the drywall and what might be rubbing off onto his back, and inched in the direction of what he could only assume was the bedroom. His eyes caught for a moment on the bathroom, but his attention was pulled back by hushed whispers droning closer.

"I'm serious, dammit. There's something out there," a feminine voice was soft, but harsh.

A chuckle, soft but disconnected, followed the statement. "Would you relax, baby? There's nothin' out there," Sam's distinct voice dismissed the woman's fear and Dean felt his worry spike straight back to anger.

"Nothin', huh?" Dean asked as he stepped into the room, jumping slightly at the shriek from the hot, naked blonde at Sam's equally naked side. He growled and averted his eyes, after rolling them in disgust.

The only response he got was a laugh from the man who sure as hell looked a lot like his brother. But that's where the similarities ended. "Dean?" Opening one eye, Dean risked a glance back at his shamelessly nude little brother as Sam rolled his head to the blond at his side, now clutching a tee shirt to her chest and looking completely terrified. "Do you see him, too?" he asked, voice thick with humor, as though making sure he wasn't hallucinating.

The woman pulled the tee shirt over her head and smacked Sam's chest before rolling out of the bed. "Dean?" she finally asked, her jerky, jittery movements stilling as her eyes focused on the young man in the door way. "Your brother, Dean?" The fear eased a bit behind her eyes as she raked her fingers through her stringy, blond curls.

Dean just nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the unmoving form on the bed. Sam had always been quick on his feet, especially at the slightest sound of a disturbance. Even if that disturbance just turned out to be Dad walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night. So why was he just laying there, all hazy eyed and grinning like a damn fool? "Dude, are you high?" The words blurted out of his lips before he could reign them back in.

Sam's broad shoulders just shrugged apathetically. "Probably," he answered easily, eyes drifting closed once more. "You just in the neighborhood or somethin'?"

More than a little pissed off, Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "Something," he responded coldly, causing Sam's eyes to open once more. If there was one thing that he would always recognize, regardless of how fucked up he was, it was Dean's 'I can't believe you pulled this shit' voice.

But instead of answering, Sam's eyes darted to the end of the bed where the blond was skirting the mattress, draped only in his enormous tee shirt, heading quickly toward the door. "Where you goin'?" he demanded in a tone far harsher than Dean could ever remember Sam using, at least with anyone other than Dad.

"I gotta piss," she spat back just as harshly and shuffled out of the room.

Dean could read the look on his younger brother's face as he watched his girlfriend retreat into the hallway as something akin to 'awe.' Like he was impressed with himself for finding someone so damn hot. If Dean hadn't been so concerned about Sam, he might have been a little bit impressed himself.

"Jessica," Sam wiggled his eyebrows when he finally met Dean's cold gaze. "My girlfriend," he added, as though Dean hadn't connected those dots.

But Dean was way beyond worrying about Jessica or what her relationship with his brother was. Sam was high, and judging from everything he'd found since entering the apartment, this wasn't his first time. "Man, get the hell up. And put some fucking pants on," he snapped, kicking the jeans nearest his foot toward his brother's muscular, still-too-naked body.

With a grumble, and muttering something about a 'shy little girl', Sam slowly got out of the bed and stretched to his full six foot, five inch frame. Lazily, he stepped into the jeans and fastened them low on his hips. He didn't really remember them fitting that baggy before, but what the hell did he know? He could barely remember his own name at the moment.

"What are you really doing here, Dean?" he asked as he made his way to the door, being sure to give Dean a bit of a shoulder check, just for old times' sake.

Dean rolled his shoulder to follow his brother down the hall, noting that Jessica had neither turned the light on, nor shut the bathroom door in her quest to 'take a piss' as she had so delicately put it. Instead of lingering, he continued after Sam, only to find his brother's lanky frame sprawled across the couch, his hazel eyes glued to the small television.

_Great_, Dean thought as he crossed his arms over his chest and considered the young man carefully. Not only did he have to worry about Dad's drunk ass, wherever it was in the lower forty-eight, but now he had to figure out a way to get Sam off of whatever junk he was on. His eyes drew to a purple bruise on the inside of his Sam's left elbow, and his head dropped between his shoulders. This was not how this day was supposed to go.

"Sam, Dad is missing," he breathed, almost more to himself than to his brother. He knew he could search for his father without Sam's help, but he didn't want to. He had allowed himself to hope that Sammy would see the urgency in the situation, pack a bag, and head out with him. He had allowed himself to think that it might actually be easy. But, then, when had his life ever been easy?

Taking a deep drink from the beer bottle on the end table, Sam's face twisted in disgust as he realized the liquid was warm and had, quite possibly, been there for a couple of days. He stuck out his tongue, allowing the bitterness to slide back into the bottle, or around the lid, and over his bare chest. "Dude," he gagged slightly and then replaced the bottle before looking up at his brother. "What do you want me to do about it?"

All of the worry, concern, loneliness, and helplessness Dean had been feeling since his father stopped returning his phone calls bubbled to the surface with Sam's nonchalant response. They were a family, dammit. They were supposed to stick together. Not run off to college, or to hunt something evil alone. They weren't supposed to splinter and separate. Not when Dean had worked his ass off for the better part of his life to keep them together.

"I want you to sober the fuck up and help me find him!" he roared, crossing the room to hoist his brother up by his forearms. It wasn't easy, and it certainly wasn't graceful, but Sam was on his feet before Dean shook him and then punched him square in his angular jaw. "Wake up and look at yourself, man!" he pleaded.

But all he received in return was the blank stare of a young man who was too far gone to care, even if he had wanted to. Dean had been sure that Sam's running off to college was just a phase, and that he would return to the fold without provocation in a year's time, maybe less. The longer that he stayed away, the more Dean convinced himself that it was for the best. Sure, Dean couldn't protect him when he was away, but he told himself that Sam was safer where he was, even without Dean to watch over him, than he would have been running headlong into danger at his brother's back.

Of course, that was before Sam had turned out to be a college drop-out and a junkie. "Jess!" Sam's voice bellowed as he glared at Dean from beneath a slowly furrowing brow, his hand gingerly touching the place his brother had just slapped. When his girlfriend appeared in the hallway, timid and unsure of stepping into the ring with the pair of them, he spoke specifically to her, "We got any ice?" without ever dragging his eyes from Dean's angry face.

While Jessica fumbled in the kitchen, Dean continued to stare at his younger brother, desperate for a sign that his little Sammy was still in there somewhere. He had to be. The only other option was . . . not an option at all. Dean could still save him, still protect him. He just needed to get him out of this apartment, away from all this bull shit.

"Sammy, come on," his voice sounded foreign to his own ears in the tense silence that had settled between them. "You gotta help me find Dad, man." He knew that he was begging, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And the times were looking more and more desperate by the minute.

Sinking back to the couch, Sam wrapped his arm around Jessica's waist as she sat beside him, pressing the ice to the red mark on his cheek. He winced at the sudden chill, but then settled into her side and revelled in the feeling of her body against his arm. "I don't gotta help you do anything," he finally responded. "I told you I was done with all that bull shit back when I left, and I meant it, Dean," he added, pulling away when the cold began to burn against his skin.

Jessica lowered the pack, and her eyes, to her lap, but didn't move from Sam's side. Dean just shook his head, a mirthless chuckle stuck in his throat. Dad was still missing, every day cooling the trail of his whereabouts that much more. But before he'd even driven into town, he had vowed that he wasn't leaving Palo Alto with Sam ridin' shotgun, and he was more determined now than ever.

Holding his hands out in a psuedo-surrender, Dean took one last painful look at Sam. "Tell me that when you're sober, Sammy," was all he said before turning and letting himself out of the apartment.

He knew that he needed to be searching for Dad, that it was important. But as he climbed into the front seat of the Impala, he couldn't help remembering something that his father had told him about six years ago, when Sam was sixteen. "_I don't care how old he gets, and I don't care how big he gets, Dean. Watching your brother's back is always your number one priority, you understand me?"_ Though he'd questioned at the time why Sam couldn't just look after his damn self, especially when he had grown to tower over his older brother, Dean knew that Dad never gave an order without a reason.

So Dad was going to have to fend for himself and hold out for a little while longer. Because Dean had to save Sam. After all, it was his number one priority.


	2. Nikka

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: I really didn't expect as many people to want to see where this story is headed - hope that I can live up to your expectations of it. And thanks for adding me to your alert lists - that's pretty freakin' cool, actually. What I didn't really realize until I was proofing this chapter is that what I've managed to do with this story is drop current-day Sammy into the Pilot episode. I find Season Four Sam incredibly sexy, so I think that might be the bare-bones description of this story. Ya know, if you wanna tell your friends about it . . . or whatever. :) Enjoy!

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If Sam had any kind of a temper, he would have been blazing angry with Dean for showing up in the middle of the night, breaking into his house, and demanding that he just leave his life and take up the search for their father. If Sam had any kind of loyalty, he would have packed his bag, made up some excuse for Jess, and slipped off into the night with his brother. If Sam had any emotions at all, he would have been bothered by the fact that he wasn't the least bit worried over any of the events of the last thirteen hours.

But instead of raging on about Dean's nerve for attempting to disrupt Sam's life, he had just peeled himself off the couch, dragged Jessica back to the bedroom, and smoked another rock. In a matter of minutes, he was too far gone to even think about the life he had, let alone the one he'd left behind. And that was exactly the way that Sam Winchester liked things these days.

Directing the sleek, silver convertible he was driving into the empty lot behind his favorite strip club, Sam killed the engine and pushed the door with his forearm. Sunglasses shielding his sensitive eyes from the glaring afternoon sun, he pocketed the keys and leaned back against the vehicle to finish his cigarette. Fuck Dean. Fuck Dad. They didn't need him. And he sure as hell didn't need them.

"There's my baby," a low, seductive voice sounded from the club's back doorway.

A smile tweaked the corners of Sam's lips as he blew a plume of white smoke into the heavy air and watched the shapely brunette stalk slowly toward him, one foot deliberately in front of the other as her wide, hazel eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief and a whisper of something far more dangerous. Stopping just inches from him, she leveled the younger man in her sights and let her tongue run the length of her plumply inviting lower lip.

Snapping his head quickly to the right, Sam shook a strand of shaggy hair from his eyes and took another drag of his cigarette while raking his eyes shamelessly over the club owner's figure. "Took a little longer than I anticipated," he apologized, though his tone wasn't thoroughly convincing. Remorse was another pesky emotion he'd given up on months ago.

The woman said nothing, only tore her eyes from the young man standing before her and held a hand out. "I charge interest, ya know," she reminded him.

Sam pulled the keys from his pocket and dropped them into her waiting palm. "I got your interest right here, Sweetheart," he smirked slightly, exhaling his final drag before crushing the butt of the cigarette against the worn asphalt beneath the heel of his sneaker.

Nikka Righetti was, far and away, the most intoxicating woman in Palo Alto. Probably, Sam often thought, in the state of California. And it was going to be the death of him, he knew. But hell if he remember that when she was standing so close.

When he'd met Jess, she had just started working in Nikka's club, just as a waitress, she assured him. She needed the money, and she wasn't getting naked or anything. Just delivering drinks to horny business men and even hornier college boys, dressed in hot pants and a sequined bra. He hadn't liked it, but what could he say? It was far more savory than some of the ways he and Dean had made money over the years, after all.

Six months into their relationship, Sam and Jess had moved into a new apartment, and bills were far more difficult to pay than either of them had imagined. His pool hustling at drunken frat parties combined with her tips from waitressing barely covered the bills. Any hopes they had for any kind of a social life squeezed in between classes and studying became unrealistic in the light of real-world expenses. So Sam had agreed to let Jess start dancing a couple of nights a week, because Nikka had promised that she would more than triple her income in doing so.

It was supposed to be temporary. Just enough to build a savings, and for Sam to get a real job. But his course load increased, and a job just wasn't feasible if he was going to score high enough on his LSATs to get into a reputable law school. Jess said that she understood, that she didn't mind making the sacrifice, and Sam pretended to be too busy with his school work to notice that the declaration never quite reached her sparkling eyes.

After awhile, it became impossible to ignore, though. The way she would stumble through the door at the end of the night, not quite drunk, but nowhere close to sober bothered Sam. The fact that she was doing this for him, so that he could pursue his own studies unfettered by the responsibility of a real job, weighed on him heavily, especially the morning he'd found a deceptively bright cocktail of unlabeled pills absently left on the bathroom counter. She was getting high to numb the pain, that much he couldn't deny.

Angry with himself and needing to lash out, Sam drove to Nikka's club that afternoon, intent on giving the woman a piece of his mind. Who the hell did she think she was? And who in their right mind gave that many pills to a college kid? One who barely weighed a hundred pounds, soaking wet? What the hell was wrong with her? Didn't she know Jess had a life outside of her club? That she still had classes to get to, and dreams of her own? Why was this bitch trying to ruin his girlfriend's dreams with a bunch of junk that she'd never be able to part with when the dancing was over? Didn't she know this was just a temporary arrangement?

Sam was a fairly docile man most of the time, but when someone he loved was in danger, his Winchester hunting instincts still fought to the surface. He would put her head through a wall before he would let this strip-club skank ruin the plans they had dreamt of for nearly a year together. She was not going to ruin his normal, happy future.

Had he known her reputation, Sam might have prepared himself for that meeting with Nikka a little more carefully. He might have been ready for her to invite him calmly into her office. He might have known how to answer when she asked, eyes full of nearly maternal concern, how much longer he thought he could operate at a functional level with all that stress on his shoulders. He might have been able to resist when she made him the offer that would change his life forever.

One simple statement: _Your girlfriend is busting her ass so you don't have to, Sam_. And a follow up question: _Who's fault is it, really, that Jess has to sell her soul to make your life easier?_

And Sam's soul was sold, too. Without really knowing what he was even agreeing to, he'd taken the small baggies of white powder that she offered, tucked them into his pocket, and promised to return her profits by the end of the week. By the time he got into his car, he knew it was a mistake. He didn't even know what the powder did, let alone who in the hell was going to buy it from him.

Convincing himself, in a way that only a lawyer can truly convince a jury of something completely convoluted, that he couldn't put it out there if he didn't know what it was, Sam cut the line the way he'd seen at a few parties, and held his finger to his nose. It burned like a bitch, and tears sprang to his eyes, but he blinked them back. Nothing worse than some of the monsters he'd run into in his past. He could live through it.

And then the adrenaline surge. The pounding of his heart. The demanding need to move, to get something done. Pacing the living room of their small apartment, Sam flipped through the pages of his assigned reading and then paced some more as he quizzed himself over the material, just to make sure he got it all down. When the walls seemed to close in on him, he grabbed his backpack, set his iPod to a professor's latest lecture and listened intently as he walked toward campus for his study group.

The fact that it was a three-mile hike didn't really occur to him, nor did the fact that he was dripping in sweat by the time he arrived bother him. Everyone else seemed to move in slow motion, and the fact that he was forced to sit on the floor nearly drove him crazy as he listened to their warped words, like a tape player running at half speed. The girl seated to his left asked him to stop tapping his foot against the floor at one point, and he did so in favor of rattling the eraser of his pencil against his thigh.

He bolted from the room as soon as the group was done, intent on doing something other than sitting around. He could feel his muscles itching beneath his skin, silently begging him to let them play, let them do something. Anything. When he passed a group of kids on the steps outside the Administration building, he heard one of them say, "_Dude's jacked up on somethin', man. Look how twitchy he is_." They were right. He was jacked up, alright. But it felt damn good.

When a quiet kid from his study group showed up at his apartment later that night, Sam was already beginning the let down, a grouchy funk settling in where the previous bursts of energy had been. When the young man asked Sam what he was on, Sam nearly took his head off. But when he explained that he was having a hard time keeping up with his classes, his job, and his wife, Sam almost giggled. Selling to Simon was as easy for him as he had been for Nikka.

Other stressed out kids followed, and before Sam realized it, he'd started his own following. They requested, Nikka obliged, teaching Sam all sorts of wonderful tricks along the way. Which powder to snort for a quick pick-me-up, which pills to swallow when he couldn't sleep at night, and which rocks to burn down if he wanted to shoot a longer-lasting numb. She taught him what to smoke if he just wanted to unwind without going too far under, and how to maximize his target demographic, minimize his overhead, and optimize his selling potential. She turned him from a lawyer into a business man within six months time. A damn good one. Always the overachiever, Sam Winchester was.

"What?" Nikka finally responded to Sam's innuendo by raising a thin hand to his face, gingerly fingering the welted bruise on his jaw. "You hidin' my interest behind this beauty?"

There was a bit of a smirk in her tone, but Sam didn't find it funny. He didn't want to talk about Dean, or anything remotely related to Dean, at the moment. "Dude broke into my apartment last night," he mumbled angrily, digging in his pocket for another cigarette as Nikka's bright eyes grew wider. "No, he didn't take anything," he assured her before she could even ask about her precious stash.

Dropping her hand, Nikka stuffed her car keys into the pocket of her tight jeans and crossed her arms over her chest. She leaned back beside Sam and stared at the back of her club. Grafitti and other muck clung to the building, and she couldn't help but be somewhat pleased that her higher-end clientele never made it around to the back entrance. That was probably why she never bothered to clean it. "So, this intruder," she started, the question in her tone, but not spilling over her tongue.

Sam sighed and shook his head. "Just a, uh, blast from the past," he answered as vaguely as he could.

"Demons tryin' to drag you back, huh?" Nikka nodded, as though she had some sort of experience with it herself. "Intervention style?"

But Sam puffed another cloud of smoke and shook his hair from his eyes again, though the action made it feel as though his brain was rattling against its cage in his skull. "Less rehab, more run away," was all he said, unsure if it even made sense. Most of the time, he felt like the words tumbling past his lips didn't really mean anything these days. Only a select few seemed to comprehend his words, reacting instead to a furrowed brow of anger or a pleased smile of satisfaction.

Nikka was one of the few. For as much as Sam professed his undying love to Jess, there was only one woman for whom he'd do absolutely anything, and she was standing at his side now. Not because she was so loyal to him - he knew that their relationship was more about the business than anything, for both of them - but because she always knew exactly what he needed. And gave it to him freely, without question. He was her favorite, and they both damn well knew that.

Pivoting on her heel, Nikka rested her hands against Sam's trim waist, easily slipping her fingers beneath the hem of his threadbare tee shirt. Not only was he the best distributor she had, he was far and away the prettiest. With his smarts and his chiseled physique, there was no way that Nikka wasn't going to fall for Sam Winchester. Not in a romantic way, of course. She wasn't picking out china patterns and pining over when he was going to leave his precious little girlfriend. But for purposes of both business, and pleasure, he was the best of all worlds. And she wasn't about to let him go. For anybody.

With a soft kiss on his stubbley chin, she slid her hands over his sculpted abs and rested them against the hardened planes of his chest beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. "Sammy," she crooned, smiling slightly when his jaw clenched at the nickname. "Baby, look at me."

Even if Sam hadn't wanted to oblige her request, there wasn't much choice when Nikka used her 'sex and whiskey' voice. Sultry, husky, and full of desire, it was the only sound in the world that could make him half-hard without so much as a hint of a visual. "What?" he demanded, biting at the inside of his cheek as he reluctantly met her gaze.

Nikka captured Sam's bottom lip between her teeth and pulled at it playfully, before wrapping her own pillowy lips around it and sucking. When Sam's free hand gripped her hip, she released him and smiled fully. "Baby, your life before was miserable." It wasn't as if she knew any specifics, but she had been 'treating' him for everything from insomnia, to repressed anger, to self-conscious insecurity for as long as she had known him. Sam Winchester was an emotional fucking mess, and Nikka was the only one who knew how to take him away from that. "You know you're better off with me, right?"

Though Sam couldn't say that he was any happier now than he had been a couple years back with Dean and his dad, he knew that Nikka was right. So what if he hadn't really dealt with the past? With her help, he could forget it for a little while, and that was more than Stanford, Jess, and his 'normal' life had been able to provide. It was, he was sure, the best that he could hope for. Though hope was another emotion Sam Winchester had long ago abandoned.

"Whatever," he gave her hip a squeeze and then shoved his hand into his own pocket. "Look, I just came by to drop off the car and cash out before I pick Jess up," he tried to change the subject as smoothly as possible.

The manicured nail of Nikka's thumb flicked over Sam's nipple as she let a knowing smirk break out on her full lips. "How you gonna pick the Girl Wonder up without a car, College Boy?" she teased.

Holding his cigarette butt between his thumb and forefinger, Sam flicked it a few feet away and then raked his hand through his hair. He honestly hadn't thought about how he was going to retrieve Jess from her internship at the psychiatrist's office across town. Probably should have done that before returning Nikka's car, but his girlfriend had been pissed enough when her boss started loaning the damn thing to him. She refused to ride in it, and on the rare occasion that she didn't have a choice, she would ask a thousand fucking questions about what he was doing for Nikka besides selling. There was no way in hell Nikka would willingly hand over her keys to anyone, even if he was Employee of the Month.

"I'll figure somethin' out," he answered coyly, shooting her a half-smile of his own. Even faked and forced, a Sam grin still went miles with a woman of any age. Beneath the image of someone with ice water in her veins, and balls of steel, Nikka was still a woman, after all. "I always do," he added, his hand sliding down the back of her denim-clad jeans to squeeze playfully at her firm, rounded ass.

"Yeah?" she half-laughed, and half-groaned the question as she raked the blunt edges of her nails back down his chest and abdomen. "Can you figure out a way to convince me to have Luther loan you his truck?" she asked before pressing her open lips against his neck, her tongue darting out to flick at his Adam's apple.

Using both hands to grip her ass, Sam pulled her hips flush to his and tilted his hips just a little bit. "Figurin' somethin' out right now," he hissed before darting his tongue out to lick at the shell of her ear. When her hand nimbly popped the button on his jeans, Sam chuckled low in the back of his throat and added, "We don't take this into your office, those cops stakin' you out are gonna get more exposure than they ever expected."

With a quick squeeze to his hardening package, Nikka pulled back slowly and spun on her heel once more, leading the way to the building without so much as a glance backwards. She was more impressed with the fact that he had spotted the surveillance team before she had than she was thinking about what he was going to do to her.

Once inside the safety of her office, she ripped her sweater over her head and watched as Sam shed his jeans just inside the closed door. "Mmm," she moaned to herself as he pulled the tee shirt over his head, nothing but miles and miles of tight skin and lean, striated muscle.

Sam crossed the room quickly and yanked Nikka's jeans to the ground without preamble, hoisting her by her armpits onto the top of her desk and stepping between her instinctively spreading thighs. He needed to pick Jess up soon, but it wasn't like Nikka was going to ask him to stick around and cuddle or anything. Besides, the only option outside Luther's truck was taking a bus, so it wasn't like he even had a choice. At least, that's what his burnt out brain told him as he sank fully into her inviting heat and found the rhythm they'd so expertly perfected over the last few months.

When it was all said and done, Nikka left Sam to clean himself up while she fetched her bouncer's keys and promised him that pretty little Jessica would bring the vehicle back to him fully intact later that night. Sam didn't need to know how many wickedly dirty things Luther wanted to do with the blond dancer on a nightly basis. Because Nikka didn't need Sam busting her favorite guard dog's face.

He was pulling his tee shirt down over the waistband of his jeans when she returned and tossed him the keys. Pocketing them, Sam ran his fingers through his hair and thought about how he needed to swing by the house and hit a spritz of cologne before he got Jessica. Nikka's wasn't a scent that faded quickly, and he didn't want to risk another fight about his afternoon's activities. Not tonight. Not when she was already going to be pissed that he'd skipped classes again. That his scholarship was all but gone. That he was nothing more than a drop out junkie.

"Hey, Sam," Nikka's voice drew him back as his hand met the cool metal of her door knob. He just cast a look over his shoulder, one that didn't quite reach the place where she was standing behind her desk. "You still havin' those nightmares?"

His shoulders visibly tensed at the question, but he just shrugged them instead of trusting his voice to answer. When he'd told her that he'd been having trouble sleeping, she hadn't hesitated to load him up with a heavy-duty sedative, one that she warned him not to overuse or take with alcohol, unless he wanted to stop dreaming permanently. And they had worked, for awhile. But the inexplicable visions were coming back, and he knew that she could see it in the hollowness of his eyes. Knew that's exactly what Dean had been seeing, too.

The thought of his brother brought another angry clench of Sam's jaw, and wordlessly, Nikka pulled a pill bottle from her desk drawer and walked back to his side. Stuffing the small bottle into the pocket of his jeans, she raised herself onto the tips of her toes and pressed a kiss to his jaw, just below his ear. "What would you do without me, Sammy?"

He honestly didn't know. It was impossible to imagine a life without her anymore. "Crash and burn." Without another word, or a look back, Sam left her behind the closed door of her office.


	3. Don't Con a Con Man

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: For some reason, I thought this chapter was longer. I don't know what happened. Hope it's enjoyable anyway!_

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When he'd left the apartment the night before, Dean had been sure that his brother would call when the sun came up, or even before. Sam wasn't exactly non-confrontational, but he never left a fight with his brother unsettled. He and Dad could go for days without speaking, but Dean usually didn't even have time to process an argument before Sam was trying to make amends for whatever they'd said.

Nineteen hours had passed since he'd left Sammy's building, and not a word. Nursing a beer at a hole-in-the-wall pool hall a few blocks away from his brother's place, Dean wondered what the hell he was supposed to do next. On the one hand, his brother was a grown man. On the other, he was acting like a complete moron. While Dean knew that he couldn't just drag Sam away, especially now that the great ape was so damn much bigger, facts didn't do much to settle his twitching desire to grab Sam and run.

He thought about having Sam arrested for whatever shit he was doing, but Dean let it go as a non-option before he even really took the time to consider it. Winchesters weren't exactly on the friendly side of the law, and if he somehow brought the police down on Dad through whatever he was trying to settle with Sam, he'd lose his entire family in one fell swoop.

He considered an intervention, but there were about a hundred things wrong with that scenario. For one, he had seen the way Jessica clung to Sam's side last night, doing whatever he said as soon as he said it. Between her, and whoever was supplying him with the shit he was doing? There was no way that Dean stood a chance, by himself, of getting Sam into rehab. What good would Sam be in a treatment facility anyway? And besides, he would never believe any touchy feely brotherly love comin' from Dean anyway. They just weren't that kind of family.

More than once, he'd thought about just knocking Sam unconcious and dragging his gargantuan ass away from Palo Alto for good. It might work until Sam woke up, and then he would be back on a bus to California before Dean could explain that it was for his own good. While he knew that getting Sam away from his current environment was going to be key, there was nothing he could do until Sam agreed. Forcing him against his will had never, ever worked with his little brother. Not even when he was clean and sober.

As he camped out on the hard stool at the bar of the smokey pool joint, he tuned out the sounds of the hustler working the table behind him and told himself once again that Sam wasn't a junkie. He was going through something. It was a phase, just like his dopey hair cut and college had been. Even though Sam still had the stupid shaggy hair, and he was still in California. But it was all just a matter of time. All Dean had to do was wait it out and everything would be okay again.

Except that the Winchesters were not men who sat around waiting for something to happen. Especially when their family was in trouble, and though Dean really wanted to drink until he could really believe that Sam wasn't in any imminent danger, the protective fear just wouldn't stop bubbling up in his throat. The Sam he'd faced off with last night wasn't his Sam, but Dean knew that his kid brother was still in there somewhere. The situation with him wasn't that different than the one with Dad, really. Dean just had to find both of them, and bring them back. They weren't gone. Just lost.

"Hey, Chet," a soft voice sounded at Dean's right as he felt a warm arm brush his shoulder. "Can I get a Jack and Coke, man?" Turning to the man beside him, the voice questioned, "What're ya drinkin'?"

It took Dean a moment to realize that the voice was actually addressing him. Turning his head slightly, he was surprised to find the expectant brown eyes of a young man with long, shaggy strings of brown hair. He was shorter than Sam, and his hair was longer, but that voice and those eyes? They quickly sent Dean's heart into his throat. "Nothin', man," he took a final drink from his own glass and held up a hand to the young man.

Lowering himself to the stool, Dean's new friend held out a hand in introduction. "Simon," he said easily, a soft smile playing on his full lips.

Though he wanted to tell the kid to get the hell away from him, Dean's mouth popped open of its own volition. "Dean," he responded, shaking the firm hand of the one he recognized had been hustling at the table behind him. "You run a good game, man," he added, inwardly kicking himself for giving anything in the way of conversation to this person he didn't even want to be talking to at the moment.

Simon brushed his hair from his eyes and accepted the glass that the bartender placed before him. "I don't know what you're talkin' about," he smiled impishly and Dean just shook his head, unable to help the laugh that escaped his lips. "So, what's your deal, Dean?" he asked in a sudden shift of topic.

"My deal?"

"Yeah," Simon nodded and rested his bare elbows against the bar, muscles flexing as he tightened the grip on his glass with both hands. Returning his eyes to Dean's face, he smiled slightly through the curtain of his chestnut locks. "I mean, I ain't never seen ya 'round here before. You just passin' through, or you transfer in? What's the deal, man?"

The smile, blindingly white and straight, almost distracted Dean enough from the question to return the expression. Except that it conjured an image of his brother, looking at him in the same way from the front seat of the Impala when Dean dropped him off at the bus station. So full of amusement and expectation. Like the world was his oyster, and he couldn't wait to see how it tasted.

Clearing his throat, he shook his head and nodded to the bartender for another drink. He'd intended on leaving before Simon showed up. Now all he wanted was another distraction. "Just passin' through," he finally answered the question that his new companion didn't seem intent on letting go. "Visitin' my little brother," he added, though he wasn't sure why. Even that tidbit of information felt like divulging a family secret or something.

"Ah," Simon nodded, his fingers raking through his hair once more as he tipped the glass. "I didn't," he stopped and shook his head as he threw a glance over his shoulder, "I didn't, uh, take all your party money from him or anything, did I?"

The sheepishness in Simon's voice managed to bring a slight echo of a smile to the corner of Dean's lips, though it never quite made it all the way to his eyes. "Nah," he assured the kid, so much like his brother in so many ways. God, he missed Sam. More so now than when there had been hundreds of miles separating them. He wanted to tell Simon that he could never con a Winchester out of pool money, that they were far more experienced than he would ever hope to be. But, again, it felt like too much information, so he said nothing and sipped slowly at the whiskey in his glass.

Relaxing visibly, Simon sank back on his stool and swiveled, resting his back against the bar as he watched the other patrons flitting in and out of the small screen door from the stuffy October night beckoning just beyond. "It's funny, ya know," he spoke, though Dean couldn't be sure that it wasn't just to himself, "Half the time, I feel like givin' the cash back after they pay up or somethin'. Like it's not really mine, 'cause I didn't really win it or somethin'."

The admission was enough to send a lump into Dean's throat. He swallowed a long, hard drink around it and shook his head, croaking out, "If the bastard's too fuckin' dumb to know he's gettin' hustled, you **did **win it," just like he'd told Sammy back when he taught his brother the ropes of the game. In a hall not unlike this one, somewhere in the middle of who knows where.

"Huh," Simon chuckled, his eyes on Dean the moment the words were out of his mouth. "That's fuckin' crazy, man," he said, his eyes wide with awe.

"What?"

Lifting his glass to his lips, Simon took a drink before he answered. "The guy who taught me this shit?" he nodded toward the table. "He said the same damn thing." He licked his lips and let his glimmering eyes drift shut for a second. "You woulda liked him," he added, almost reverently.

Pulling his phone from the pocket of his jacket, Dean checked the screen. Nine o'clock. No missed calls. After knocking back nearly all of the drink the bartender had just delivered, Dean stared hard at the glass and heard himself ask, "Would have?" Like he actually cared or something.

"Yeah," Simon nodded, his eyes clouding as he narrowed them in the direction of the pool table. Almost as though he could see the ghost of his mentor standing there or something. "Was a great guy. Ran a hustle like nobody I ever seen before," he shook his head and then returned his eyes to Dean's. "Life of the party, man," he added with a sadly bright smile, like Dean had seen so many people flash as they recalled memories of their dearly departed loved ones over the years.

Slipping into 'hunter' mode, he sipped at his drink and shook his head slightly. He could pretend to be interested in a stranger better than just about anybody, reall. "Sounds like a cool guy," he acknowledged.

Simon just nodded and huffed, a sardonic chuckle that betrayed all of the virtues he'd just bestowed on this phantom teacher. "'Course, he ain't been that guy for awhile now, ya know?" Turning wounded eyes to Dean, Simon looked like a kid who just found out his first puppy had rabies and was gonna have to be put down. "You believe in demons, Dean?" he asked, his eyes fixed on a couple of guys near the door.

The question shocked him, but not enough to break his poker face. Nodding slowly, Dean took another drink and waited for Simon to make the next move. If he needed to perform an exorcism, he was fairly certain he could do it, though Latin had always been more Sammy's thing than his own. Besides, it would be better than sittin' on this damn stool, feeling useless.

"They're fuckin' ruthless, man," Simon went on, completely unaware of the way Dean was clenching and unclenching his jaw rhythmically at his side. "One day, life's good. You got an Ivy League scholarship and a hot fuckin' girlfriend, ya know? It ain't easy, but it's so damn good." His voice slipped even further away as he took a drink and ground his teeth together, nearly hissing between them. "And you think you can control it, that they'll never get ya, 'cause you're smarter than that, right? Stronger.

"But once that demon takes hold, man? Huh," he just shook his head and spun to face the wall once again. Resting on his elbows like he had been before, Simon risked a look at the man beside him. "Some ruthless sonsa bitches, I'll tell ya that," he finished with a bow of his head and another rough chuckle.

Tilting his head, Dean took in the sight of the young man beside him and something clicked in his brain. "You were possessed by one of these demons?" Simon just nodded. "But you're not now?"

Simon snorted and then turned a cynical grin to the man at his side. "Not like I was," he answered, confirming Dean's suspicion that he was not, in fact, speaking of a real demonic possession. "'Course, my friend used to say you can exorcise a demon, but the residue it leaves behind? Sticks to your bones, man. Rotten, like sulfur or somethin'." With another shake of his head, Simon slammed the rest of his drink back and set the glass against the bar. "Dude, I'm sorry, man," he apologized, his smile returning as though he hadn't been seconds away from a break down. "I didn't mean to kill your buzz or whatever."

Dean just shook his head as Simon stood and threw a couple of bills onto the bar, motioning from himself to the man at his left when the bartender looked their way. When the heavy hand on his shoulder lifted, Dean threw a glance over his shoulder, calling after Simon's retreating form. "Hey, Simon," he called out. Simon stopped, pivoted, and raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry 'bout your friend, man," he spoke with a more genuine emotion this time. Maybe he was giving too much, but he wouldn't wish the feeling he'd had last night with Sam on anyone. Even some burnt out pool hustler he'd never met before.

The muscles in Simon's shoulders bunched as he shrugged. "Ya can't save 'em all, I guess," he said with a heart-breaking smile.

The words reverberated to Dean's core as he let his eyes drift to the pool table where Simon had resumed another game. In his mind's eye, he could see a figure hovering there, lowering his eye-line to the cue ball, quickly glancing up at the young man to whom Dean had been speaking just a second ago. He could see the wink, and hear the clearing of the throat just before the man sank the ball in the corner pocket.

Without needing a confirmation from Simon, Dean could see Sam standing there, imparting all of the wisdom he'd learned from his big brother on his new protegee. And he could just as clearly see the pair in the parking lot, shooting junk into their muscular arms until the world around them melted away, until the demons enveloped them both in a hell neither had even seen coming.

But try as he might to wrap his head around the hopeless look in Simon's eyes when he echoed Dad's words - _You can't save 'em all _- Dean watched the young man oafishly stumble through a few shaky goes at the table, and then raised his glass when the kid met his eyes with a twinkling amusement of his own. Simon himself was living proof, after all, that a guy like Sam could, indeed, be saved, wasn't he?


	4. What Sam Needs

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: I've been a little surprised at the response to this story - I know a lot of people don't really review on this site anymore, but the amount of people adding it to their favorites list is half-awesome. Which is full-on good, right? I think I heard that somewhere. Anyway, Enjoy!_

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"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Jess!"

The force from the explosion of his words made Jessica jump in her seat, her back bumping the window of the rickety, old pick up truck Sam had borrowed from Luther to pick her up earlier in the afternoon. She fucking hated that damn scrap of metal, and if Sam had looked at her for more than two seconds, he would have seen that. At least, the old Sam would have seen it.

The old Sam would have asked why she hated it so much, why she looked like she was going to throw up at the sight of it pulling into the parking lot of the doctor's office. The old Sam would have noticed the way she barely perched herself against the edge of the seat, shivering with the memories of Luther's tobacco-soured breath against her neck while he had her pinned against the very side of his precious rusted piece of junk. The old Sam would have thrown his fist through Luther's jaw for the ways he had touched her in the parking lot that night.

And the old Jessica would have bitched and moaned that he needed to loosen up, that being a possessive ass wasn't helping anything. But inside, she would have fallen just a little bit further in love with the old Sam. Because he was the only person she had ever known who loved her before her clothes had come off. He was the only one who had ever seen her as more than just the head cheerleader, or the prom queen, or the hottest chick on campus. The old Sam had loved her in a way that she thought only heroes in romance novels written by women could ever love her.

Staring through the streaked windshield of the truck, she narrowed her eyes and then turned to fix them on the new Sam. The one who barely saw her as more than the tits and ass that her customers appreciated on a nightly basis. The one who could have cared less how miserably desperate she was to claw her way out of the life they had fallen into, as long as she brought him home a paycheck and kept her mouth shut about how far away from their dreams they had run. The one who seemed to take pleasure in making her cry more often than trying to make it stop.

"What the fuck is your problem tonight? Dammit!" Sam went on, his eyes cutting to the pouting young woman at his side. His girlfriend was amazing, but she was also annoying as fuck. Especially when she forced him to leave his happy place and drive her whiny ass to work. "You been bitchin' for the last four fucking hours, Jess," he went on, not really caring if she was bothered by his words or not.

It wasn't really his fault that she had to get up and go to work at ten, when his work came to him. It wasn't his fault that Luther needed his truck back, especially not when she was going to the club anyway. Why the hell he had to leave the house, mid-crash, to deliver her naked ass to Nikka's was beyond him. If he hadn't been clinging to what little bit of sanity he had left, he might have reached across the seat and punched her.

"Well, did you ever fucking think for two seconds that maybe I'm not in the mood for this shit tonight?" She gestured toward the windshield and then turned fiery, angry eyes on the man at her side. "That maybe I have a paper due on Tuesday that I'm nowhere near finished with? That maybe I have shit to do that doesn't include payin' for your motherfucking habit?" Clenching her fists at her sides, she wondered how bad it would hurt her hand if she sank it into the hard plane of his chest. Because sometimes Sam Winchester deserved to be hit, dammit.

Sam just rolled his eyes and plunged his hand into the pocket of his jeans, withdrawing a pill bottle that he'd grabbed from the counter. He could tell, from the way she'd been stomping around the house, that it was going to be one of those nights. And Sam was nothing, if not prepared. "Chill the fuck out, would ya?" he said as he tossed the bottle into her lap.

But Jessica just threw the bottle back and raked her fingers through her long, blond locks. Charcoal-lined eyes tilted toward the ceiling as she threw her head back and let out a long, frustrated growl. "What the fuck happened to us, Sam?" she asked finally, looking back at the stoic face of the young man beside her. The one that, once upon a time, she had trusted with her life. "We used to have dreams, ya know? A vision. We knew where we were going, and how we were gonna get there." With a cynical, hardened chuckle, she watched him sigh and turn his head toward the drivers' side window. "Do you even love me anymore?"

Annoyance more than anger flared in Sam's chest as he rolled his neck and then looked at her with a look that could only convey, 'Duh.' "What the fuck kinda question is that?" he asked aloud, almost feeling badly when a tear formed in the corner of her eye. "You know I love you, Jess," he added, the first drop cracking through the barrier he'd so deliberately constructed. "You know this is for us," he motioned to the duffel bag containing her costume for the night that sat between them in the truck.

She **had **known, once upon a time. It had been the only reason that she had ever agreed to dancing in the first place. For Sam. So that she and Sam could have their house in Connecticut with the white picket fence, and the two kids in private school. So that he could call himself 'Sam Winchester, Esquire,' and she could sign 'Dr. Jessica Moore-Winchester' on referral slips someday. She had known it as clearly as she had known that he was the only one in the world that she wanted to be with.

But she was barely managing to keep herself afloat at school, and Sam had quit trying all together. Their apartment smelled like the crack house that it was, and the guys that stopped over to buy from her boyfriend scared the living shit out of her most of the time. The ones that leered at her while she was on stage weren't much better. She was tired of popping a pill for the courage to get naked in front of their preying eyes, and she was sick of popping another one to pretend that cocaine was the only blow Nikka was giving Sam. She was tired of only having really great sex with her boyfriend when they were both on something harder than unadulterated passion for one another. She was just sick and tired of it all.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep this up, Sam," she finally managed to whisper around the ragged lump in her throat, her long-ago dulled eyes fixated on the red fingernails twisted together in her lap.

Though he wanted to tell her to suck it up and get the hell out of the car, Sam bit the inside of his cheek and risked a sidelong glance at the young woman in the seat beside him. She was so fucking beautiful, his Jess was. Blond, tanned, and curved in all the right places. He knew that it pissed her off, but he couldn't help thinking she was even hotter when she was all vamped up for a night at work. Porn star make up, red vinyl stilettos, white thigh highs, and that little nurse's outfit she took off for the world to appreciate? It was hot, and he liked it, whether he was supposed to or not.

Of course, baby Jess in her striped panties and Smurfs tee shirt wasn't exactly unappealing, either. Stretched out beside him on the bed, laughter rolling over her lips as they told each other jokes that made no fucking sense under the haze of whatever Nikka had bestowed upon them that particular week? He'd known, from the moment he met her in a coffee shop just off campus, that she was way out of his league and far better than he deserved. But he wanted her then, and he still wanted her now. The the thought of losing her made him more than a little crazy.

Giving her his best puppy dog eyes, ones perfected over years of serving as Dad and Dean's little bitch-for-intel boy, Sam reached across the seat and took Jessica's thin hand in his considerably larger one. "What do you wanna do, Jess?" he asked her, the words sounding weak and pathetic to his own ears. "You wanna leave me? Is that it?" Even saying it made his heart speed. What in the hell would he do without Jessica? Who would he be? Where would he go? Who would hold him when he crashed so hard he thought his limbs would come apart? And who would remind him that he wasn't alone when all of the other shit stopped making him forget? "You can't," he sighed, blinking back tears he hadn't expected. "Baby, I need you."

Though she wasn't entirely sure that the quivering of his bottom lip wasn't just an act, Jessica couldn't help seeing the young man she'd fallen in love with in the driver's seat of the truck. Watching him grapple with his emotions while gripping her hand filled her chest with a dreadful sense of hope that maybe they could still work things out. That maybe they could still find their way back. Maybe.

Carefully, she eased across the stiff leather of the seat and pressed a kiss to Sam's stubbled, sunken cheek. "I love you, Sam Winchester," she whispered into his ear before pressing a kiss there, too, and pulling back. When he met her eye, she sucked back a breath at just how much she meant those words, and swallowed back the fear of just how deep they could drag her. "We'll talk about it when I get home?" Even as he nodded, though, she knew that they wouldn't. That he would be in no state to talk by the time she got off work.

Sam collected himself as Jessica sauntered into the club, lifting his hand to return her wave when she turned back before disappearing from sight. Without remembering that he was supposed to be returning Luther's truck, he peeled out of the parking lot, cursing the wave of emotion, regret and sadness and despair, washing over him. Fucking Dean showing up at the house. Fucking Jessica talking about leaving. Fucking Nikka leading him around by the balls like a puppy on a chain.

The only reason he'd even started all this shit in the first place was to get rid of the guilt he felt over betraying his family, and the loneliness of feeling like no one understood him, and the awkwardness of knowing he was a freak long before those haunting nightmares had ever started. Who the fuck did they think they were, dredging it all back up when he'd finally managed to shove it far enough down that he could pretend it didn't exist? Who the fuck were they?

Parking the car in front of the apartment, he stormed the building, taking the stares two at a time. He was wrong in the car. He didn't need Jessica. He didn't fuckin' need Nikka. And he sure as hell didn't need Dean. As he sank to the bed and tied a rubber band tightly around his forearm, Sam smiled at the bulging vein and gripped the needle he'd left waiting beside the bed. There was only one thing that Sam needed, and within seconds of shooting it into his veins, he laid back on the bed and surrendered solely to it.


	5. The King Pin

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: Just wanted to say thanks for taking the time to read, guys. You're the best. Enjoy!

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Dean couldn't help wondering, as he exited the bar, what the hell he had done to deserve the life he was now living. He hadn't asked to roam around the country, switching schools more often than he changed his underwear. He hadn't asked to be a gifted marksmen who could topple evil cans at two hundred yards with the precision of a sniper. He hadn't asked for his mother to die, for his father to go stark-raving crazy, and for his brother to run away and develop a drug habit. He'd dealt the best he could with the hand life dealt him, but he hadn't _wanted_ any of it.

So why the hell was he the one in charge of finding Dad now? Why was he the one who had to drag Sam back from the edge of whatever cliff he was dangling over? Why was he the one in charge of holding everything together, when he was the only one who hadn't tried to rip it all apart? And why in the hell couldn't someone just tell him how to get it back to good? Why, when he could figure out how to kill a ghost or gank any other number of hideous monsters, couldn't he figure out how to fix his own damn family?

Sighing heavily, he checked his phone once again and then pulled his keys from his pocket. As badly as he wanted to kick his brother's ass for ruining his life, Dean couldn't be angry. Not yet. Not with so much worry clouding his brain. He'd never been a stellar multi-tasker, and getting Sam out of town had to be his first priority. Once his brother was safe in the passenger seat of the Impala, bound for Jericho to find Dad, then Dean would be pissed off. For now, he just had to figure out how to get the kid in the car.

"Need some help?"

Whipping his head around, Dean watched Simon stalk from the bar, zipping a sweatshirt over his chest before he flipped the hood up to cover his shaggy hair. "Uh," Dean stammered. On the one hand, he _did _need help. Any of it that anyone could provide would be useful. On the other, it was a family matter, and he didn't want to involve outsiders at all.

Simon just smirked and pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his sweatshirt, lighting it before smiling warmly. "Look, before I got clean, your brother and I were tight, okay?" He didn't bother to explain how he had seen enough pictures of Sam's family to know exactly who Dean was from the moment he'd strode into the bar. "So if you want help finding him, I think I can cover ya," he offered with a slight shrug, as if it only made sense.

Considering the younger man for only a second, Dean nodded to the car and let himself inside the Impala. Sam had been fairly docile the night before, but Dean couldn't be sure that his return visit would be greeted so easily. Back up certainly couldn't hurt, especially in the form of someone Sam knew, and maybe even trusted.

As Dean started the car, Simon finished his cigarette and then dropped into the passenger's seat. "So this is the infamous '67, huh?" he asked, his hand gliding reverently over the dash. When Dean only grunted his response, Simon checked his watch. "He's probably gonna be at _Eden_. Best place to start," he suggested.

"_Eden_?" Dean asked, his eyebrow arching curiously.

Simon pointed down out the windshield. "It's this strip club down the road," he explained. "Boyfriends aren't really supposed to be allowed in when their girls are workin', but the rules don't really apply to Sam, ya know?" He rolled his eyes as though everyone understood just how powerful Sam Winchester was in this area of town.

But Dean didn't _know_. Anything. Except that his brother had traveled so far off the reservation, Dean didn't know how to get him back. Oh, and apparently, the empty-eyed blond he'd met last night was a stripper. Other than that, he had to resign himself to the fact that he didn't know shit. So he just shrugged and followed Simon's instructions until the car came to a rest in the lot outside of _'Eden_.' "This is it?"

As far as he could tell, it was no different than any other strip club in any other part of the country. It was an old retail store, the front picture windows blacked out to keep innocent eyes from gazing upon all it had to offer within. The flashing 'Triple X' under the neon name of the club was just like a lot of other clubs, too. And Dean couldn't imagine that the girls inside were so much more spectacular than any he'd seen anywhere else, either.

"He's not here, man," Simon answered flatly.

Whipping his head to the side, Dean raised an eyebrow at the definitive sound of the young man's voice. "How can you be sure?"

Simon pointed toward the doorway, where a bouncer stood frisking a couple of guys before allowing them to enter the club. "Light security," he responded, as though it should be obvious to Dean.

"So?" Dean's shoulders shrugged, but he was growing more agitated by the second. There had been a time, not so long ago, that nobody had known Sam as well as Dean did. Now it seemed like he was the only one in the world who didn't know his brother, and it bothered him more than he was willing to admit out loud.

Rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers, Simon kept his eye trained on the door as he watched the activity, or lack thereof, around the entrance of the club. "Let's just say that Nikka insures her toys," was his flat response.

Something just didn't make sense as Dean tried to piece together the puzzle that was now Sam's life. From what he had seen, his brother had practically flunked out of school and couldn't drag his ass ten feet without collapsing. Why in the hell would anyone want to insure that? And what did that mean, anyway? Insure him. "Can I ask you a question?" He turned just enough to see Simon shrug. "Why do you keep talkin' about Sammy like he's the king pin around here or something? What's the deal, Simon?"

"Dean, your brother," Simon stopped and shook his head, as though he really couldn't believe he had to explain this, "is not just another junkie, okay? He's Nikka's number one. She gives him first crack at everything in her stash, and he turns around and sells it to half the city. I talk about him like he's the king pin because she treats him like he is. Protects him like he is."

The words lodged in Dean's chest. He'd be damned if he let some strip club skank protect his brother anymore. That was his job, dammit. "Come on, man," he said, pushing the door of the car with his elbow. "Let's go get my brother back," he added.

But Simon just shook his head and sank further into the leather of the car's seat. "He's not in there," he repeated his earlier statement.

He could have cared less if Sammy was inside or not now. He was more interested in beating down the bitch who thought that she could steal his baby brother from him. "You sure?" he asked, taking a deep breath to calm the racing of his heart. Busting up a strip club, especially one run by someone as powerful as Simon claimed that Nikka was, probably wasn't the smartest move. Sure as hell wasn't something Dad would have done.

With a roll of his shoulders, Simon withdrew further into his sweatshirt and shot his eyes toward the side of the building. "You can drive 'round back if you wanna be sure, but he's not here," he said confidently.

Dean eased the Impala around the back of the club, eyes peeled for the gargantuan sight of his little brother. With a sigh, he ran his hand over his head, dread and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness filling his chest when he realized that, just like Simon said, Sam was nowhere to be found behind the club. For all Dean knew, he was dead in an alley somewhere, or at the very least, on his way to it.

"Dammit, Sam," he growled, his hand punching the steering wheel in aggravation.

But Simon's hand brushed his thigh and Dean whipped his attention to the young man at his side. "Look," he nodded toward the club's back entrance where a tall blond in jeans and a hoodie raked her fingers through her hair and scanned the parking lot.

"You don't think we have more important things to do than hit on a stripper?" Dean shot, taking a second look when Simon rolled his eyes. "Wait, is that . . ." he let the sentence trail as he killed the engine of the car and moved to push the door. "Jessica?" he called in the distance between them, watching the young woman's eyes flit in his direction.

"Dean," Jessica greeted and then darted her gaze back around the parking lot. "I thought you took off," she managed to smile when she realized that they were alone. Crossing her arms over her chest, she felt the weight of her duffel bag against her hip as she noticed the other man with her boyfriend's brother. "Hey, Simon," she greeted easily.

Simon followed Dean to the place where Sam's girl was standing, and offered her a cigarette. After lighting it for her, and one for himself, Simon smiled at her knowingly. "How's it goin', Jess?" He sounded timid, almost shy.

Dean watched the interaction curiously. Sam's former friend seemed pretty comfortable with Sam's girlfriend. "Are you guys," he started to ask, but then snapped his mouth shut. Offending either of them wasn't really going to help him at the moment. "Are you off now?" he asked Jessica, who just blushed, nodded, and refused to meet his eye as she blew smoke toward the ground.

"He's not comin', huh?"

Simon's question brought Jessica's gaze slowly to the young man's face. There were unshed tears behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. It wasn't like she was surprised that Sam wasn't around to pick her up. When did he ever do what he said he would anymore? Wasn't like this was the first time he'd left her to find her own ride home from work. At least this time he had Luther's truck, so the bouncer couldn't offer to help her out.

Exhaling another bitter plume, Jessica chuckled cynically. "I'm not Nikka," she told him, knowing full well that the young man would understand the meaning beneath her words. Sam didn't come for anyone but Nikka anymore, in any sense of the word.

Nodding, Simon cast a glance over Jessica's shoulder, half-expecting to be joined by aggressive, angry, and volatile security guards at any moment. "Well, we could give you a lift, if you want," he volunteered Dean's services without so much as a questioning glance toward his new partner in crime.

Not that he needed to. Dean had been willing to give the girl a lift from the second he realized that his brother had fallen down on the job. Of course, his intentions had nothing to do with the delicate blond standing before them now, swimming in a hooded sweatshirt that could only have belonged to her boyfriend as she smoked and seemed to shrink by the second. The sadness behind her eyes would have broken Dean's heart on any other day. But for the moment, she was a means to an end. A way to get into Sam's place again, to give it another try with his little brother. And he couldn't let himself feel guilty about using her.

"For sure," he agreed with an emphatic nod.

Jessica hesitated. "He'll be pissed if I let you back in the house," she told Dean softly, though she couldn't deny that seeing him had been less-than-discouraging. Knowing that he hadn't just skipped town, that he hadn't given up on Sam just yet, meant more to Jessica than she could tell him.

Dean held his hands out and shrugged his shoulders heavily. "I'm not askin' to come in," he lied through his teeth as convincingly as he could. "Just drop you off, if that's what you want," he offered, watching her flinch at the words. "It's totally your call, okay?" he added for good measure.

With another deep breath, Jessica threw a glance over her shoulder and then around the parking lot. If she had learned anything in the last two years, it was that she could never be too careful. That Nikka had eyes everywhere. And that any decision concerning Sam would probably bite her in the ass eventually. "Alright," she agreed, following the pair toward the sleek, black muscle car from which they had emerged.

Maybe it would all blow up in her face. Maybe Nikka would tip Sam off and she would have hell to contend with when she got home. But maybe, just maybe, the open affection and concern in Dean's face meant that he could help them. Maybe it meant that whatever Sam was running from, whatever had driven him down into the hole in which they were now living, wasn't permanent. Maybe this was the guy who could help them back onto the path to their dreams.

Tuning out the conversation between the kid at his side and the young woman in his back seat, Dean directed his car out of Eden's lot and hoped to hell that this wasn't a bad idea. That Sam wouldn't get it in his paranoid mind that Dean was trying to do something more with Jess than just give her a ride home. That he wouldn't somehow twist Simon's presence as a betrayal or whatever other ridiculous thing that an addict's mind could come up with. He just hoped that this entire night didn't turn out worse than the one before had.


	6. He's Family

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: Sorry for the delay, those of you who have been waiting for the next chapter in this story. For some reason, I thought I already posted it. Hm. Anyway - sorry again and I hope you Enjoy!

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The look in her eyes was vacant, yet somehow filled with terror as Sam rolled to find Jessica at his side in the bed. Her nightgown was tattered, as if she'd been in a fight with an animal, and the way her gut was ripped open only lent credence to that theory. Blinking in confusion, Sam jumped when the body slid from the bed and up the wall, pinned by some cosmic force to the ceiling above his head. And he could only stare in horrified wonder as the flames seem to burst from her body, lick at her flesh, and then consume her whole.

Bolting upright in the bed, Sam ran his hands over his face and shivered when the chill of the evening blew harshly against his sweat-slicked skin. It was happening again, and even the sleeping pills Nikka had given him weren't stopping the onslaught of images from parading through his head. His heart raced against his ribcage as he looked to his right, fully expecting to find his girlfriend staring back, a look of worry and concern in her eyes. She would ask if he wanted to talk about the nightmares, and then she would offer to do anything he needed to help him calm down.

But the glaring clock on her empty side of the bed was the only thing that stared back at Sam. She was supposed to be off-stage around midnight, and was always back home by one. Even if she had to walk home, she would make it into the bed by one thirty. It was now two forty-five, and Jessica's side of the bed was cold.

In something akin to a blind panic, Sam pulled himself from the bed and stopped short to steady his wobbling legs. His head was pounding and his tongue felt thick against the roof of his mouth as he moved toward the door in slow motion. Stopping at the dresser to pull a small handgun from the drawer, he tucked it into the waistband of his pants and concentrated on moving toward the living room for signs of his girlfriend. Maybe she had just gone to the bathroom. Or maybe she was making a snack. Maybe she had a paper to finish, or studying to do. He tried to tell himself that there were a million reasons that she wouldn't be in bed with him, calming him down after his nightmare, but none of the reasons really stuck in his brain.

As he neared the living room, he could hear the whispered hush of voices somewhere close by. The apartment was empty, but the glass door behind the television was open, and he could see the hunched silhouette of two figures on the rickety, old balcony just beyond the living room. One was undoubtedly Jess. The other, Sam knew in an instant, was Dean.

As the pair sipped from beer bottles, Sam felt the anger rising in his throat. It wouldn't be the first time Dean had tried to steal a girl from him, but as he reached for the weapon in his waistband, Sam determined that it would be the last. The brush of cool gun metal against his fevered flesh seemed to send a whisper into the furthest corners of his brain. _You don't even risk shooting a buyer over a deal, but you're gonna shoot your own brother over a girl? Really? Think Sammy. Think.  
_

Relaxing his fingers, Sam quietly set the gun onto the end table beside him and leaned in the doorway, straining to hear the conversation between the pair on the porch.

"I wasn't really looking for a relationship when I met him, ya know?" Jessica said as she tilted her bottle to her lips and shook her blond locks. "Just tryin' to get through school. He was, too. But it was like we both just knew, right? Just fucking knew that we weren't gonna get rid of each other that easily." She chuckled, a soft, lilting sound that carried on the humid air around them. "Sam was the first guy who ever, like, saw me, ya know? Like beyond every mask that I tried to put on, he just knew."

"Knew what?" Dean interrupted, his voice laced with genuine interest.

Jessica's eyes settled on the railing before her as she lifted her feet and leaned back in her chair. "Who I really was. Like he just got it, and he was still in. Whatever baggage I had or whatever, it wasn't gonna scare him away, ya know? I used to call him my knight in shining armor." Her tone was wistful as she thought back to those early days of her relationship with Sam.

Inside the apartment, Sam couldn't seem to fight the smirk that tweaked his own lips. That couple, seemingly so foreign to him now, didn't have one single care in their world. They had each other, and that was going to be enough to tackle whatever issues they might have to deal with in the future. It was Sam and Jess against Planet Earth, and nobody was going to stop them. At least, that's what they had believed, once upon a time.

The clearing of Dean's throat told Sam that his older brother was struggling with more emotion than he was willing to let out. The fact that he still knew Dean so well, even after years of not seeing him, was almost entertaining. It almost filled him with a familiar warmth. It almost evoked an emotion of longing. Almost. But when Dean asked, "So what happened?" the cold, distant emptiness returned to Sam's chest. Who the hell did Dean think he was, anyway? Coming into his own house and passing judgment on his lifestyle? Like the way they were raised was so Donna Reed perfect?

Jessica's responding chuckle was cynical, at best. Stretching her denim-covered leg, she rolled her head in Dean's direction, but didn't turn her face to him. "Life," was her simple response. "Used to be so simple, ya know? Classes, the library, being together. We didn't need anything else."

"And then you did," Dean filled in the blank and Jessica just nodded. "Can I ask you a question, Jess?" The casual use of her nickname tumbling from his brother's lips irritated Sam, but he held his ground. More than he was pissed at Dean, he was curious to hear what his brother might want to know. More curious to know how his girlfriend might answer. "Shit's bad, right?" She nodded, and Sam couldn't help thinking back to their argument in the car earlier in the evening, the parts of it that he could remember. "So why stick around?"

"He's tried to kick your ass out already. Why are **you **still here, Dean?" she retorted, the fiery nature with which she often confronted Sam twinging the corners of her words. If Dean wanted to accuse her of being weak, Sam would only laugh when Jess showed him just how wrong he was.

With a shrug of concession, Dean took another drink of his beer and let his eyes drift over the less-than-scenic view from the balcony. "He's my family, ya know? Don't matter to me if he fuckin' kills someone, he's still my brother," was his only answer.

Jessica's posture relaxed into her chair again. "Then I guess we're on the same page," she answered. When Dean shot her a look of confusion, she just smiled ruefully, her gaze never quite making it back to his face. "I know you may find this hard to believe, since we're not blood relatives or whatever, but I love your brother more than anything in this world. I would do anything for him," she huffed and lit a cigarette while shaking her head. "Already have," she added in a soft whisper that was almost lost on the man inside.

"But this shit you're doing for him now? It's not helping either one of you, Jess," Dean pointed out. "I mean, you expose yourself in a job you hate so that he can keep flushing his life down the fucking toilet. Who's benefiting from that arrangement? Which one of you is coming out ahead?" Jessica said nothing, only continued to smoke and process the question.

Sam's hands balled into fists as he dropped them to his sides. He wouldn't shoot Dean dead off the edge of the balcony, but he would beat his bitch ass if he thought that he could waltz into his younger brother's house and just corrupt his girl against him. This was his life, dammit, and Dean didn't get to have anymore say over it. Ever again.

But his brother began to speak again, causing Sam to freeze in the place where he was about to push off of the wall. "Look," Dean's voice was soft, nonthreatening, and rehearsed. "I'm gonna be really straight with you, okay? I want the old Sam back. The one who cared about studying and school and being a thousand times better than guys like us have any right to be." Running a hand over his hair, Dean looked at the woman seated next to him, her knees drawn up to her chest as though she were trying to withdraw into herself.

"I want that, too," she whispered, the sincerity of her words carrying on the soft breeze blowing through the open window.

As Dean spoke, Sam could hear the hope beginning to rise in his brother's voice. Like he really thought that he could save Sam from himself or something. "Listen, Jess, Sam's not too far gone, okay? I can still get through to him. But you and I both know that I can't do it here, right? Not with all these other influences dragging him right back in."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

The boom of Sam's angry voice caused both Jessica and Dean to leap in their seats as they turned to find him lumbering toward them in the darkness of the living room. Bathed only in moonlight, Sam stepped around the television and into the sliding glass doorway, wrapping his arm around Jessica as she stood to greet him.

Seated, Dean looked up at his brother, his face emotionless. "Sammy," he started.

"So this is your master plan?" With a raise of his eyebrow, Sam squeezed his fingers against Jessica's hip, his arm flexing from the motion. "Turn my girlfriend against me and make me run away with you?" He laughed sardonically. "All that shit Dad taught you about strategy and procedure, and that's all you can fuckin' come up with?" Another laugh followed, though it sounded anything but amused.

Taking a moment to make his way to his feet, Dean just shook his head and searched his brother's eyes once again, like he had the night before. Sam had been an angry kid for a long damn time. Angry with whatever had taken his mother before Sam got a chance to meet her. Angry with his father for dragging him so far from normal, he didn't have a real chance of finding his way back. Angry with Dean for always trying to play both sides of the fence. Angry with everyone who didn't understand his life, and everyone who didn't even try to care. Even in the years before he left for Stanford, he had been a powder keg, and Dean knew that this had to be the time that the wick burnt down to the core. This is where Sammy exploded.

"What the hell is wrong with you, man?" Dean asked, his features dark and hardened against his brother's accusations. The only way to fight with angry Sam was to get angry right back. Remaining calm only incited the younger man further. At least, as far as Dean could remember it. "You didn't like the life you had, fine. You couldn't wait to get away from me and Dad, it's whatever." His eyes darted to Jessica and then back to Sam's stoic face. "But you had a full ride to an Ivy League school and a hot ass girlfriend, man. You had every fucking thing you wanted. Why in the hell would you fuck that up?" Dean just shook his head, shoulders sagging in misunderstanding confusion.

"Maybe you should go, Dean," Jessica whispered softly, trying to extract herself from her boyfriend's bruising clutches. He had never outright hit her, but when he was possessive, his grasp on her arm or her hip was less-than-loving, and she was going to have trouble hiding the effects of his grip if he didn't let up a little bit.

The feeling of his girlfriend struggling against him just pissed Sam off further. "Ya just think you have it all figured out, don't you? That you know what's happened in my life? That you know me at all?"

"I do know you," was Dean's only response.

"No! You don't know me, Dean! I'm not the little boy that needs to be protected from the monsters under his bed anymore, okay? I don't need you." Shaking his head, he lifted an arm and pointed toward the door. "And I don't fucking wanna see your face again. So just get the hell outta my house, outta my life, and go fuckin' find _your _dad by your damn self." He knew that his body was shaking, but he chalked it up to the fact that he was coming down, not to any emotion that Dean might still be able to evoke inside of him.

With a bow of his head, Dean nodded in concession and stepped back into the apartment. He was nearly to the kitchen when he stopped and looked back at his little brother, jaw set as he stared hard at the concrete balcony floor and fought to control the shaking of his body. "Sammy," he whispered.

Turning fiery eyes to his brother, Sam finally released Jess and rested his hands on his hips. "It's Sam," he corrected the older man.

But Dean didn't care about the semantics of a fucking name anymore. With determination equal to his brother's, he crossed his arms over his chest and held his ground. "Man, I don't know how you got here, and I don't know what's happened to you since you left. Truth is, I don't really fucking care anymore." He offered his brother the smallest hint of a smile. "But I'll be damned if I am going to give up on you. Whether you want me to or not." With that, he turned and exited the apartment for the second time in as many nights.

Re-entering the house, Sam sank his fist through the plaster of the living room wall and let out a small grunt. He barely heard Jessica sniffle at his back before pivoting to see her in the doorway, watching him as if she was scared to come back inside. "Jess," he whispered her name, but she just rolled her eyes and stepped around him.

After she had unzipped his sweatshirt and tossed it onto the couch, Jessica crossed her arms over her chest and stared hard at the young man standing before her. "What? You gonna kick me out, too?" When he said nothing, she tilted her head and then laughed as sarcastically as he had just moments ago at his brother. "Well, you can't. I'm not goin' anywhere, Sam," she promised him, though everything inside of her echoed Dean's earlier question: _Which one of you is coming out ahead? _Though the answer - _Neither one of us _- rang in the furthest corners of her brain, she couldn't bring herself to believe it. She loved him, and that was supposed to be enough. It had to be enough.

For a long time, they only stood and stared at each other. There were a million accusations, apologies, and declarations of love on the tip of his tongue, but none of them could seem to decide which was going to come out first. So he held it in. Forced it down. Just like he did with everything else. She wasn't the kind of girl who said shit she didn't mean, especially not to Sam. If she said she was sticking around, she wasn't going anywhere, even he never spoke another word again.

Finally, after an eternity, Sam took a step forward and then fell to the couch. Reaching out, he rested a hand on the small of Jessica's back and pulled her toward him. The bruise from his fingers against her hip bone was already fading from an angry red to a dull purple. Without a glance up, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the mark of his fingers. He said nothing, but the intent of his actions was clear when Jessica's fingers raked through the soft hairs at the back of his neck.

He wouldn't cry, because he didn't do that shit anymore, but something akin to relief washed over Sam as she pushed him back on the couch and straddled his lap. When she held his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his jaw, he thought maybe everything could still work out for them in the end. And when her tongue traced the outline of his lips, he felt like maybe he would still be okay. When her hand snaked down the front of his baggy sweat pants, he hissed and growled against the side of Jessica's neck and let go of everything else.

He wasn't happy. Probably never would be. But he had Jessica. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that he still had Nikka. He had everything that he needed to get through the next day, and the one after that, and the one after that. Regardless of how fucked up Dean thought he was, Sam would find his way to good eventually. In about five minutes, if Jessica didn't slow the jerk of her hips against his.


	7. Simon's Secret

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: So I stuttered in posting this story for awhile, but I'm back on track now and should be able to finish posting it this week or next. I just wanna say a quick 'thanks' to the people who are reading it and adding it to their favorites lists. Especially to those of you who have sent reviews. It's awesome that y'all are somehow connecting to this, and it means the world that you're spending your time on it. Thanks!

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"Hey."

The sheepish blush that crept pink into Simon's cheeks almost made Dean smile as he rested in the doorway of his motel room and eyed the young man standing on the other side of the threshold. "You stalkin' me or somethin'?" he asked, his chin dipping as he kept his eyes steady on his late-night visitor. "Seriously, do I need to call the cops or somethin'?"

But Simon just shook his head and buried his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie as he stepped inside the room and looked around at the cheap interior. His apartment was small, and Sam's was a hole, but he had trouble believing that Dean had shelled out actual cash for this kind of rat trap. "Dude," he shook his head and laughed, his eyes drifting back to the man at the door as Dean shut and locked the room up tight. "Ya know, if you need a place to stay while you're in town, I got a couch," he offered.

Dean just shook his head and moved around the foot of the bed that Simon had lowered himself onto. Sinking into the nearby chair, he lifted his legs and crossed his ankles against the mattress, warily considering the lost-looking young man, wondering just why in the hell he had shown up hours after insisting that Dean drop him back at his truck before taking Jessica home. The entire vibe had been weird when Dean pulled away from the curb, but he'd said nothing. Weird vibes were kind of his wheelhouse, after all.

"So," Dean tried again when it became apparent that Simon was going to do nothing more than judge the motel he'd gotten for the night. It really wasn't his fault that Mr. D'Angelo's credit limit was so fucking low, and that the cost of living in Palo Alto was too fucking high. He didn't need some college drop-out junkie passing judgment on him, as well.

Simon just nodded and concentrated on his shoes, unsure of exactly why he was there in the first place. He didn't really want to admit to Dean how easy it had been to find the man sitting near him now. Or that he had been looking for him at all, really. It was obvious that he'd stay close to Sam, and that car he drove wasn't hard to spot in the parking lot. "So," he repeated, letting out a low breath as his eyes drifted to the window. "Dude, is that," he stood and walked toward the window, catching the sight of Dean's cringing shoulders to the left of his vision. "Ah," he nodded when he reached the sill and realized that the fine line of powder near the window was actually salt.

He'd been so sure that Simon was going to demand to know exactly why he had a line of salt in his windows. That if the kid turned around, he would see the one by the door, too. He was so busy trying to figure out how he would explain that shit that he didn't even notice for a second that Simon seemed completely unfazed. In fact, the way he was smiling said more that he remembered some inside joke from years gone by than giving away the fact that he found it a strange course of action.

"Precaution," Simon nodded easily as he returned to the bed and flopped down, stretching his denim-covered legs out against the hard mattress as he clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the dingy, yellowed ceiling. "Sam used to do that at his place, too," he added, rolling his head to glance at Dean quickly before returning it to the ceiling. "Well, not just like that, but the idea was the same," he added, as though he were speaking to the scuttling ladybug making her way toward the light in the center of the ceiling.

"What idea?" Dean wasn't sure why it bothered him to think that Sam might have told Simon the big family secret, that maybe he let this kid in on things that were supposed to be between the brothers and their father, but it did. Maybe because Simon would think he was a horrible influence on Sam and stop helping him? Seemed flimsy, at best, but it was the best Dean could do in the unsettling situation.

Simon just snorted and rolled his eyes. "Salt at the windows and doors keeps evil spirits away or some shit, 'cause it's supposed to be, like, pure or somethin', I guess." He shrugged and then rolled his head toward Dean again. "Said it was a family superstition." When Dean just nodded, Simon raised his eyebrow and then returned to his former ceiling gazing, as though it was no different than a family who prayed before dinner or bowed toward Mecca five times a day.

Piercing green eyes studied the younger man as an amused chuckle tweaked Simon's full lips. "What?" Dean asked, never one to enjoy being on the outside of an inside joke.

After struggling slightly into a seated position, broad shoulders rested against the headboard of the rickety bed, Simon moved his gaze to the wall, as though he could see some movie playing out there. "Sam's a fucking genius, man," he finally spoke, a certain twinge of something akin to awe staining the edges of his words. "Told me the first time he tried to salt the windows and the door, Jess freaked the fuck out, right? Didn't want salt in her carpet. Thought Sam was too old to be scared of the fuckin' boogeyman or whatever. Like she didn't understand that it wasn't anymore asinine than rubbin' some wooden beads while she talked to some god she'd never seen, ya know?" Raking his fingers through his hair, Simon blinked and then turned his face toward Dean. "So Sam started makin' this saltwater solution and paintin' it around the doors and windows while she was at class." His muscular shoulders shrugged again, his expression damn near impish. "Fuckin' genius, man. Fuckin' genius."

It wasn't an innate knowledge, Dean realized as he watched Simon relay his story about salt water and Sam. It wasn't like he consciously formed the question. But when it popped out of his lips, Dean didn't even ask. He just stated, "You got a thing for my brother." It wasn't an accusation, and he was probably more surprised than Simon to find that he didn't sound freaked out in the least. Just a fact. Simple as 'ghosts are real' and 'Sammy needs help' and 'never ride a truck stop waitress bareback.'

Simon didn't bother denying it. Just let his brown eyes drift lazily shut as his brain filled with images of the Sam he had gotten to know back in the day. The awkward kid who sat near him in half of his classes. The one who always seemed to care a little too much about what the professor was saying. The one who smiled at him and made his day better, though Simon hadn't really understood why at the time. "Wish I had your intuition, man," was his only response.

"Why's that?" Dean asked, relaxing into his chair as the weight of his discovery seemed to lift a burden off of his shoulders. The reasons weren't clear, and he knew he couldn't explain, if asked, why he felt better knowing that Simon had feelings for Sam. But something about Simon's nonverbal affirmation made the everything seem more comfortable somehow. If he really stopped to think about it, the entire situation would seem weird and fucked up. But Sam was the over-analyzer in the family, not Dean. So he let it go and waited for another lazy answer from the young man on the bed.

Simon pulled a cigarette out of the pocket of his jacket and raised an eyebrow in question. When Dean nodded his permission, Simon lit the cigarette and took a deep drag before sitting up and pulling his knees toward his chest. "Sometimes I think shit woulda gone down different if I figured it out earlier, ya know? Like maybe I woulda gone about everything some other way if I'd known then what I know now." He let out another curling plume of white smoke and shook his head.

The pieces began to fall into place in Dean's head. "You didn't use before you met him, did you?" he asked.

Simon shook his head again. "Dude, never even smoked a cigarette 'fore I met Sammy," he confessed, though the blush he'd had earlier was now only a distant memory as he eased into a comfort zone with his new pseudo-friend. Not since his days as Sam's bitch boy had Simon really felt like he had someone to talk to. The fact that Dean only wanted to talk about Simon's once-upon-a-time favorite subject didn't hurt matters.

"But buyin' from him got his attention," Dean filled in the blanks when Simon fell silent. He didn't know why needed to know more about this kid's relationship with his brother, but Dean assumed it was the fact that Simon was the only real link to Sam's life that he still had. Sammy himself certainly wasn't coughing up a biography of the last few years.

It sounded silly when Dean said it out loud like that, but Simon couldn't deny that the older man was right. "I was his first," he said wistfully and then laughed at the way it sounded. Dean laughed, too, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, so Simon offered him a cigarette and a light, waiting for Dean to exhale his first drag before he went on. "I'd seen him in class or whatever, but I didn't, like, think about him outside of that or whatever. I had a girlfriend, ya know? And our relationship was fucked all to hell, fought more than we got along, but she was fuckin' hot and sex was good, so whatever. No worries, right?"

Dean just shrugged. This was why he didn't talk to gay guys. Not because he didn't like 'em, or because he even worried about 'em liking him. He just didn't think it was nearly as big a deal as they always did. It wasn't like he'd ever sat his dad down and told him that he liked girls. He didn't need a parade screaming through the heart of town to let everyone know that he was interested in fucking females. Why should it be any different when a guy wanted to fuck another guy? In the grand scheme of things, Dean didn't think who anyone decided to bed down with mattered much. Not when there were ghosts and demons and various other hell spawn that would devour them all whole if given a chance. Sexual orientation didn't bother Dean. In fact, it didn't really matter to him at all.

So listening to Simon explain that he didn't even realize he was attracted to Sam until his girlfriend pointed it out to him one night wasn't exactly interesting to the eldest Winchester. But it wasn't the most shocking thing he'd ever heard, either. And Simon admitted that Sam treated him differently because he was the first guy to ever buy from him, that he made him feel special, that the drugs brought them closer together, Dean didn't flinch. In fact, he kind of understood it. Hell, he'd gone to his fair share of emo pop shit concerts with girls just to get close enough to get laid. As far as he was concerned, it was the same thing. On a far more dangerous level.

"I'll never forget the first time," Simon's voice sounded after a long pause that Dean hadn't really even realized lulled the conversation.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean finished his cigarette and stamped it into the ashtray that Simon was offering. He noted that the young man was already starting on another. "First time what?" he asked, though he was fairly certain Simon was going to tell him about getting high. It seemed to be the only thing Sam and his precious inner circle could talk about, after all.

But Simon just smiled wickedly and ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "I tore through my scholarship check pretty quick, ya know? Sam was generous, at least with me and Jess, but he wasn't cheap. I was comin' down fast, and I needed that hit so fucking bad. I literally begged him for anything he had lyin' around, just till I could come up with some more cash, right?" His fingers ran deftly through his dirty brown locks, pushing them away from his face in a fluid motion. "He just told me nothin' was free," he shook his head and a sad nostalgia filled his dark eyes.

Dean cleared his throat, unable to reconcile this stalwart drug dealer with his kind-hearted little brother. He'd seen some of the changes in Sammy firsthand, but hearing about more made his chest ache. Even if he never got Sam back, never got him to leave Palo Alto or help look for Dad, Dean wanted nothing more than to just know his brother again. It wasn't like he could ever stop wanting to protect the kid, but something even more desperate than that clawed at him. It was the insistent fear that he'd never get a chance to sit down and talk with his brother over a beer at the end of a long day again, and it was shredding the hell out of the hope in Dean's chest that Sam could be saved.

"Let me blow him for a dime bag that night." Simon's voice was so matter-of-fact in the silence of the room that Dean couldn't help whipping his head in the young man's direction. The expression on Sam's brother's face just made Simon laugh. "Trust me, dude, I'm not the first junkie in history to blow a dude for drugs," he assured the elder Winchester. "'Course, I'm probably the only one who kept doin' it just cause I liked it so fuckin' much," he shrugged, though didn't seem remotely embarrassed in his revelation.

After exhaling a heavy sigh, Dean leaned back in his chair. "Dude, that's," he stopped. _That's what? _he thought to himself. _ Too much information? Pretty fucking pathetic? Kinda romantic? _Shaking his head, Dean didn't bother to finish the thought.

"It's fuckin' sick is what it is," Simon chuckled. "Sure as hell wasn't gonna tell him that I thought I was gettin' off on it, ya know? That I thought I might be feelin' somethin' other than loyalty to my dealer or whatever. He was so fuckin' far up Jess's ass, he couldn't even see straight. Then he started fuckin' Nikka, too. If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that your brother is all about the pussy, man," he assured Dean, though he wasn't sure Dean really needed assuring.

"Dude," Dean held up a hand as he crossed his ankle over his knee and reclined in his chair. "He let you blow him," he said, as though that somehow contradicted Simon's previous statement.

It didn't, but Simon didn't expect a straight guy to get that. "Not a dude I know who doesn't like a good cock suckin' pretty much any time," he answered. "You get as fucked up as Sam can get, and you don't really care who's lips they are. If they get ya off, you let 'em suck," he informed Dean. "I'm damn good at it," he added with a wink.

For the first time, Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I believe ya, man. I don't need an object lesson or nothin'," he said quickly.

And Simon laughed again. "Relax, dude." Raking his eyes over the older man in the chair, he bit his lip and then told Dean, "You're not exactly my type, ya know?" When Dean rolled his emerald orbs in response, Simon couldn't help the knowing smile. "I know it's hard for a guy like you to grasp the idea that every breathing human being on the planet doesn't at least WANT to suck your dick, but I like my guys a little gayer than you," he stated, as though it should have been obvious.

"Sam's not a flamer," Dean pointed out, suddenly offended that he wasn't Simon's type. Not because he wanted to fuck the kid. Just because he didn't like feeling unwanted.

Simon lit his third cigarette and rolled his eyes, exhaling, "Fuckin' straight guys," under his breath as he released the smoke. "There's a world of difference between 'queer' and 'queen,' ya know? I just meant that I like my guys to like guys, too," he explained. When Dean's eyebrow shot up, and his mouth opened, presumably to shoot a thousand holes in Simon's statement, the younger man held a hand up. "Your brother was the exception." His head tilts in consideration. "Or maybe he was the start of the rule. After I cleaned up, I pretty much decided I wasn't gonna whore myself to straight guys anymore." His eyes filled with sadness for a moment, but cleared quickly.

Leaning forward again, Dean met Simon's eye. "Can I ask you a question?" Simon just gave another noncommittal shrug. One that said Dean could ask whatever he wanted, but that he wasn't going to promise to answer it. "Did you ever tell Sammy how you felt?"

The sardonic chuckle that ripped through Simon's throat echoed off the tattered walls of the old motel. "Realizing I liked Sam helped me figure out that I was gay, Dean, not suicidal." Another drag of his cigarette. Another measured silence. "I told you, man. Sam wasn't into me. 'Sides, it's not like I was in love with him or anything. Just really liked hangin' out with him, and really got off on suckin' his dick, ya know?"

"Sounds like love to me," Dean grumbled under his breath as he accepted the next cigarette that Simon offered. Accepting the flame and deeply inhaling the first ragged drag, Dean opened his mouth to ask another question and then stopped, opting for something more telling. Sometimes the interrogation skills that Dad taught him were useful for more than just hunting human remains. "Why you helpin' me, man?"

For the first time, Dean caught him off guard. "Uh," he stammered and then covered as quickly as he could. "I'm not, like, into him anymore or anything, but I still care about the guy, ya know? I don't know, it's like seeing you in that bar kinda gave me this hope or somethin'. Like maybe he could still, like, get out or somethin'. That maybe you could get through to him where me and Jess couldn't," he gave a characteristic shrug and then became heavily immersed in the design of the dirty bedspread upon which he was seated.

If there was one thing that Dean Winchester knew better than most anything else, it was the tell-tale signs of a liar. And Sammy's sobriety was too important to let a half-truth get in the way. "Simon, what are you not telling me?" he pressed for an answer, only to find the kid pressing his lips more tightly together, flushing for the first time since arriving on his doorstep.

For a long moment, they sat in complete silence, nothing to fill the space between them but the even sound of their mutual breathing. And then Simon ran his tongue across the plump flesh of his lower lip. "I don't know," he started to speak, though he knew full well. And he knew that it was probably going to get him kicked out of the room. "You're, like, his hero or something, ya know? Even when he was pissed as all hell at your dad or whatever, he would talk about his big brother, Dean. About how cool you were, and how fuckin' much he missed you or whatever. I just thought," Simon stopped speaking and lowered his head. "Know what? It doesn't matter what I thought, okay? Just, please, forget it." Dropping his face into his hands, he took a moment to collect himself before standing from the bed.

Though Dean didn't stop him from smoothing his hands over his jeans and moving toward the door, he couldn't help thinking about the words left unspoken between himself and Simon. The kid might have been clean and sober, but as far as he could tell, it was one of the few differences between his brother and the young man he'd once considered his friend. From the soulful, rolling eyes to the massive, shrugging shoulders, Sam and Simon were just far too similar for Dean not to notice.

And on the heels of that realization, the truth occurred to Dean. Simon was helping him for the same reason that he was letting Simon help. Because they both missed Sam, and they both considered each other the only remaining link to the man they'd both been so familiar with once upon a time.

"Simon," Dean called out. When the young man turned at the door, he shook his head. "I'm not sure I can get through to him." It was an admission of weakness, and until that very moment, one that Dean would have never made to anyone other than Sam.

In true Sammy fashion, Simon shot Dean a heartbreaking grin of sadness, void of hope, and nodded. "Maybe not," he agreed in a tone that offered not a hint of false anticipation. "What do you say we give it one more shot tomorrow, and if it doesn't work, we'll regroup and figure out the next step?"

Though Simon would never replace Sam, Dean decided that one more day with the kid couldn't hurt. There was virtually no chance that a few more hours was going to change Sam's mind, but he couldn't bring himself to believe that one more try wasn't going to be different. He couldn't let go of the hope that was slipping so rapidly through his fingers, especially not with Simon's expectant smile glowing back at him from the doorway.


	8. Things Are Starting to Look Up

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: Alright, so this is my favorite chapter, for what it's worth. Hope you all Enjoy!

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Sam Winchester couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like things were actually pretty good in his life. Since he'd had really fantastic sex with the woman that he loved before drifting into a dreamless sleep until well into the following afternoon. Since he'd woken up to sunshine beating against his face and actually greeted it with a smile before burying his nose further into the strawberry shampoo/menthol cigarette scent of Jessica's silky hair. Since she'd agreed to skip classes and spend the day with him, dressed only in one of his tee shirts while lounging at his side on the balcony, sharing joints and talking about nothing of any consequence at all. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually thought about a future with her, let alone gotten excited about it.

_Things are always better when Dean's around._

Though the words had sounded in the back of his brain on more than one occasion during the day, Sam had refused to let the thought linger. He and Jess had been cruising toward a breaking point for months, a do or die scenario, and they would have gotten there without Dean sticking his know-it-all ass into the mix. Sam had to believe that she would have stuck by his side even if his nosy older brother hadn't threatened to take him away from the life they'd built together. They were meant to be, Sam and Jessica, and he'd known it from the first time he'd seen her. Nothing Dean had said or done in the last two days changed that one bit.

Forcing his brother out of his head once again, Sam tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and headed down _Eden'_s darkened back corridor, toward Nikka's office. Jess had actually agreed to continue the great day they were having together by accompanying him to some off-campus party thrown by some of Sam's wealthier student buyers, and while leaving her side for even an hour seemed risky, he needed to restock his party supply before they headed out for the night. The relationship was far from fixed, but the day had been so damn good, and he had to believe that one hour wasn't going to disrupt the delicate balance they'd struck in the last sixteen hours.

"Luther," Sam nodded to the large man standing guard outside Nikka's office door. With an eye roll, Luther reached for the door and turned the knob. Chuckling slightly as he stepped over the threshold, Sam winked at the humorless guard dog and then smirked when Luther growled back. If he thought for a second that Sam didn't know how much Luther hated him, how bad he wanted to be banging Sam's girl, then he was dumber than his thick head looked. Truth be told, it amused Sam to no end.

Nikka's eyes were narrowed at something on the desk in front of her, her blackberry pressed to her ear as she listened to whatever the person on the other end was saying to her. Tossing a glance toward her visitor, the corner of her pillowy lip curled into a smile and she held up a finger. "Yeah, I know the deal, Frankie. And I've got it covered, I told you. . . I will." Standing from her seat, she tucked a hand into the pocket of her tailored, brown pants and walked slowly toward her favorite toy. "No, it's ready. I'm sending it over right now."

Sam smiled when Nikka's wide eyes rolled and her hand magically found it's way under the hem of his tee shirt. He would have to be blind not to notice the obsession she had developed with his chest over the time they had known each other. The way her hand always seemed drawn to the warm flesh just beneath his shirt. Fingernails starting just above his navel as they firmly scratched a path toward his left nipple. She always went for the left one first. Why, Sam didn't know.

With one hand resting on her hip, Sam let his eyes drift around the room. It was a plush office, and one that she had promised would be his some day. Of course, she'd been fuck drunk and barely able to catch her own breath on the soft leather couch at the time, so Sam knew he shouldn't put much stock in the statement. Still, he couldn't stop himself from wondering if she ever thought about the offer. If she would ever actually consider signing _Eden _to him. As owner, he could let Jess stop dancing, and he wouldn't have to sell as much to stay afloat. In fact, it might be just the exit off the path their lives needed to take.

"Thought you forgot about me, baby," Nikka's low growl sounded against Sam's ear, drawing him back to the woman caressing the soft patch of hair just below his navel. She'd tossed her phone onto the desk behind them and was fully concentrated on him now, with a look that caused Sam to shift just a bit.

It wasn't often that he came to Nikka riding as low as he was in that moment. Not that he was sober, but the pot that he and Jessica had been smoking for most of the afternoon was nowhere near as stringent as the shit he usually shot or snorted before coming to the club. It was easier to ignore what he was doing that way, to put his conscience at ease. In this light, Nikka looked less like a sex goddess, and more like a predatory cat or something. A lioness, admiring her prey before devouring it whole.

Raising an eyebrow, he held his ground and squeezed her hip in his strong fingers. "Only been a day," he shrugged easily, though he had to do the mental math to be certain. It was only yesterday afternoon when he'd returned her car, wasn't it? After the events of the past twenty some hours, it seemed like a lifetime, but admitting that would open him up for a conversation he really didn't want to have with her.

"Really?" Nikka asked, stepping forward a bit to force Sam against the edge of her desk. When he was perched against the expensive wood surface, she pressed her body along the length of him and trailed her tongue across the line of his strong jaw, the smoothness of his skin indicating that he'd just shaved recently. "Feels like longer," she whispered against his ear once she'd tasted his skin from one side to the other.

Sam's hand traveled from her hip to the small of her back and pressed firmly as he rotated his own hips. When Nikka groaned at the pleasure of the contact, he dipped his head and nipped his teeth at curve where her neck met her shoulder. She thought that she was hard as nails, but Nikka wasn't so hard to figure out. Sam had a pretty good idea of just what she liked, and how she liked it. "Can't stay long," he whispered against her skin when he felt her hand at the button of his jeans.

Nikka just wrapped her lips around his Adam's apple and scratched at his flat stomach again. "Why?" she purred against his skin, her wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing the hard column of his muscular throat. "Got a hot date?"

Whether it was the question, or the mocking tone of her words, Sam wasn't sure. But he swallowed hard and covered her hand over his zipper. "Actually, I do," he responded, pulling back from her lips. "We're gonna hit a Delta party," he went on when Nikka's eyebrow shot up in a way that said she thought Sam taking his girlfriend out on a date was 'cute.' "Just stopped by to load up," he returned her expression with a sarcastic one of his own.

Pouting, Nikka took a step back and tore her hand slowly out of Sam's. Sometimes she was almost offended at how easy he thought she was, at how smooth he thought his game was. Sometimes she wondered if he so easily forgot the fact that she was the one who had seduced him into her web in the first place. That he was the one who needed her, not the other way around.

Wordlessly, she crossed the room and pressed a couple of buttons on an automated key pad. A painting on the wall slid toward the ceiling, revealing a high-tech safe, which Nikka opened with another code in another key pad. Sam knew that she had a weekly appointment at a spa on Sundays, and he was the only other person on the planet that knew the combinations to both locks. If he'd really just wanted to load up before a party, he could have restocked his stash himself.

"Ya know, Sammy," she teased lightly as she busied herself with extracting baggies pre-cut powder from the safe, "you don't have to have an excuse to come see me." Withdrawing a few more bags of pills, she craned her neck to see into the back of the safe. "Rock won't sell to these guys, right?" she questioned over her shoulder. Delta boys were notoriously lazy and entitled. They'd spend a pretty penny of Daddy's money on the good shit, but they wanted all the work done for them. None of the raw stuff would sell.

That had actually been the observation that shot Sam to the top of the class in Nikka's book months ago. She'd been pushing drugs in Palo Alto for eight years before he came along. She'd been the top distributor in the area for most of those years, and had worked with more than her fair share of college dealers. And never, in all of the time she'd been working the industry, had any of her pushers ever read people the way Sam Winchester did. She'd always just assumed that frat boys weren't into the purest forms of her product. Figured that they didn't want to walk that close to the edge, to risk getting hooked or losing their scholarships. Sam was the one who explained that they weren't quite so noble, just lazy.

She might have been the one who schooled him on which drug worked best for which situation, but Sam was the one who could spot a mark from across the room, and know exactly what he or she needed without so much as eye contact. She taught him about the product, but he taught her more than a little bit about their clientele. If Nikka was honest, she had thanked her lucky stars more than once for whatever fucked upbringing had saddled Sam with the baggage he brought to her door step. He was bred for her business, and she wasn't the least bit sorry that she was reaping the benefits of it.

"What is this?"

Dropping the bags to the small table beneath the safe, Nikka shut the safe door and spun on her heel to find Sam behind her desk, a sheet of paper clasped tightly in his long fingers. "I can't exactly see it from here," she pointed out, gathering his requested merchandise in both hands and making her way back to his side.

When Sam turned wide, unabashedly shocked eyes to her face, Nikka knew exactly what he'd found. "This isn't," he started and then laughed disparately, as though it were the only thing he could think to do. "Is this," he stopped again and thrust the paper toward her.

Nikka just took it from his hands and tossed it onto her chair. Hoisting herself onto the top of her desk, she spread her thighs and pulled Sam's belt loops until he was standing directly before her. "Baby," she whispered, her hands moving to his wrists as her thumbs sought his racing pulse. "Relax, Sammy," she soothed, releasing one of his hands to reach for the drawer at her left.

But Sam wasn't the least bit interested in whatever pill she had to calm him. Grabbing Nikka's hand, he took a huge step backward and ripped her from the desk. "That list," he pointed toward the paper that she'd tossed aside as though it was nothing. "You're not seriously blowin' the whistle," he gaped in disbelief.

For as long as Sam had known Nikka, the feds had been interested, struggling to build a case against her for every sordid and illegal thing they'd heard she might be doing. It never bothered Sam really, seeing as police and even federal agents had investigated his own father over the years. And so far as he knew, they'd never been able to find enough evidence to hold even a traffic ticket against Nikka. She didn't just provide the best shit in town, she knew how to cover it better than anyone Sam had ever met.

But as he stepped around her and looked at the other papers on her desk top, his heart began drop low in his belly. E-mails from some federal drug task force official, Nikka, and her lawyers indicated that a case was being built against the alleged distributor, and unless she was willing to name names, she was going to spend a very long time in a federal prison. Everything in his chest screamed that Nikka would never turn on her own, but Sam's brain told him differently. If she could save her own ass, she would turn on any of them in a heart beat.

"Sammy, relax," Nikka repeated, her voice firm as she took his hands again and pulled him away from her desk. Walking him over to the couch, she sat and tugged on his arm until he did the same. Throwing one leg over his, she rested her palm against his cheek and offered him a soft, understanding smile. "Breathe for me, Sweetheart," she added, her hand stoking his face as the other danced across his forearm.

Though he wanted to bolt for the door, Sam allowed Nikka's touch to lull him into a false sense of security. That's all she'd ever really offered him, after all. A facade. A mask of safety. The illusion of something better. "Nikka," he began to speak once his breathing had evened somewhat.

Grasping Sam's hand between both of hers, Nikka shook her head. "Sam, baby, you know that the feds have been on my ass for years, right?" He nodded and she took her bottom lip between her teeth before exhaling a slow breath. "Well, they're finally closing in, and the only way to pacify them is to start coughing up some names." Speaking as though she were explaining basic math to a second grader, Nikka kept her voice matter-of-fact as she trailed her fingernails lightly over the backs of Sam's fingers.

Pointing toward the chair, Sam felt his pulse begin to speed as quickly as it had slowed. "Jess's name is on that list, Nikka," he croaked, almost unable to believe the words as they passed over his lips. Surely Nikka wouldn't send his girlfriend up the river.

"Sometimes sacrifices have to be made, Sammy. You know that, baby," she defended, reaching for his face once again.

But Sam lept from the couch, nearly hysterical. "Don't you dare make this sound like some noble cause!" he shouted. "That is the fucking woman I love!" Caught in the mania of the moment, Sam began to let the words in his brain tumble out of his mouth. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You are not going to send my girlfriend to a federal fucking prison for shit she didn't even do! That she has NOTHING to do with!"

"First of all," Nikka interrupted, standing to her feet and holding a finger out, all signs of the understanding lover gone, replaced by the Ice Queen business woman, "Don't you dare tell me what I can or cannot do, Sam Winchester." Stopping inches from his considerably taller form, Nikka reached behind Sam and gripped the hair at the back of his head, yanking his face to her level and resting her forehead against his. "I am saving your sweet ass here, so don't you ever fucking forget who's in charge. Do you hear me?" Narrowing her eyes, she practically hissed, "Do **not **make me change my mind."

The scoff that crossed Sam's lips as he pulled himself from Nikka's grasp almost surprised him. "So either I let you send Jess to prison, or you send me? Is that the ultimatum here?" If he hadn't been so livid at the sight of Jess's name on that list, the entire situation might have even drawn a laugh. He was sure that the absurdity of it all would have been somewhat funny.

Leaning back against her desk, Nikka found herself anything but amused. "I trained you, Sam. When you came to me, you were sinking in debt and depression." Pointing to her own chest, she held his gaze hard in her own cold, narrowed one. "**I** made you what you are. Don't you believe for a fucking second that I can't do it to someone else just as easily. You are not irreplaceable."

Even as the words crossed her lips, Nikka knew it was a lie. She knew because her own heart was flopping in her chest as she spoke. He was her Sammy. The one who looked at her as though she held the entire world in the palms of her hands. He was happy with a few lines of good blow, followed up by a hot blow job. And he sure as hell didn't think about Sorority Barbie when he was locked away in Nikka's office. Because her Sammy was just that - hers.

_'What would you do without me, Sammy?'_

The entire crux of their relationship had always rested on Sam believing that he needed Nikka. That he simply couldn't make it through a day without everything she provided him. That she alone held the key to every damn thing that Sam Winchester needed in the entire fucking world.

Watching him pace her office, anger and confusion evident on his beautiful face, Nikka knew she'd made the right decision. Sam was actually considering the possibility of putting his own head on the chopping block for his dear, sweet Jess, but he wasn't sold on it just yet. All she had to do was a little convincing.

As long as he had that fucking blond distraction, there was someone else in his orbit. Someone who could convince him to 'turn himself around' and 'make something of himself.' Something more than Nikka allowed him to be. As long as he had that bitch in his life, there was a chance he would walk away from her, and Nikka simply wasn't going to let that happen.

When he finally stopped moving and dropped his head between his shoulders in defeat, Nikka wrapped her arms around Sam's waist from behind and rested her forehead against the tee shirt covering his spine. "You know I'm looking out for you, baby boy," she whispered, and smiled inwardly as she felt his body relax against hers. Pressing her lips to his back, she added, "You know I don't **want **to let you go."

Turning in her arms, Sam held Nikka's waist in a bruising grip. He kind of assumed that she was gonna be the death of him, but he'd always imagined it would be a little more indirectly. She would give him some new pill or powder, he would take too much, and that would be it. He never dreamed that she would hold his entire future in the palms of her elegant, delicate hands, taunting him with it like a biscuit in front of a trained puppy.

Jessica's life, or his own? Was it even possible to separate them? If he let Jessica go to prison for his sins, he would never forgive himself. But if he didn't let her go, he was going to spend the better part of his own life behind bars. How in the fucking hell was he supposed to make that choice? Better yet, how had he gotten to the place where he would even have to make that call at all?

_You had a full ride to an Ivy League school and a hot ass girlfriend, man. You had every fucking thing you wanted. Why in the hell would you fuck that up?_

Dean's words rang in his ears, even as Nikka grasped his face gently with her fingers once again. She whispered, "Just let me handle this, okay?" But when he nodded numbly, he wasn't listening to her. He was hearing another voice all together.

_I'll be damned if I am going to give up on you. Whether you want me to or not._


	9. If You Can't Beat 'Em, Run the Hell Away

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: This chapter turned out WAY longer than I intended. Hope that's okay.

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"Dude, this sucks!"

Dean clicked the television off and tossed the remote onto the bed at his side, shaking his head with a heavy sigh. "Tellin' me," he agreed with a slow nod as he ran his hands over his face. "Damn place doesn't even have cable," he added, allowing his head to roll in the direction of the young man in the chair.

Standing quickly to his feet, Simon began to pace the length of the bed, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his over sized jeans. "How long we gonna piss around this fuck hole?" he demanded in frustration.

The pair had used the better part of the day to figure out a game plan in confronting Sam, and it was pretty good, if Dean did say so himself. He'd even convinced Simon that Sam wasn't going to _literally_ throw him out a window if he accompanied Dean to the front door. They'd gone early enough in the evening that Sam should have been home, and awake, and Dean actually allowed himself to hope that maybe Simon was right - maybe they could get through to his little brother.

But Jess had answered the door, rather coldly, and told them both to get the hell out before Sam got home from the club. The vulnerable young woman Dean had spent hours talking to, sharing his concerns with, the night before was gone. In her place was a hardened girl, bound and determined to stick by the guy that she loved. And the hope he was clinging to slipped just a bit. Without Jess's support, getting Sam out of California and back on the road was going to be next to impossible.

Frustrated, Dean returned to the hotel, Simon unshakable. He didn't want to leave without Sam, didn't want to bolt while Sam was still standing on the ledge, but he couldn't forget about Dad, either. Every day that Dean hung around to run into the Sam-sized wall of stubbornness, the trail to John Winchester's whereabouts was growing colder. He promised Simon that he wasn't giving up on Sam, that he never could, and that he would return as soon as he found his father, safe and sound.

Ever the convincing hustler, Simon talked Dean into hanging around for a few more hours. There was a party at one of the frat houses, and that's where Sam would head for the evening. Selling to Deltas was easier than catching fish from a barrel, after all. If they waited for Sam to get home, they could talk to him without ever breaking into his house. Just one last chance - that was all the younger man was asking. He said that they had to give it one more shot. He felt it in his gut.

So Dean had agreed to wait. But it was going on eleven thirty and Simon was getting fidgety. Long hours in dirty motels, waiting on word from Dad, had trained Dean to entertain himself while holed up for awhile, but it didn't make the minutes pass any quicker. Especially with the kid chain-smoking, pacing, and cursing about how they should be doing something more.

"Dude, sit the fuck down," Dean pointed back to the chair, but Simon just rolled his eyes and pulled another cigarette from his pocket. Two empty packs already rested near the table lamp beside his chair, and Dean wondered just how Simon managed to take a single breath without hacking up a lung.

Perching on the edge of his chair, Simon raked a hand through his shoulder-length hair. "I know a couple Delta guys," he said, his brow furrowed as though he were somehow changing the plan. "I can get us in to that party."

"Yeah?" Dean laughed at the mere suggestion. "You wanna drag your addicted ass into the middle of a coked-up frat party? You think that's really the best idea, man?" When Simon opened his mouth to speak, Dean sat up straighter and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Or maybe we could just sit him down and get him to talk to us there, huh? I mean, crazy rager seems like as good a place as any to stage an intervention, right?" Rolling his eyes, Dean pushed off the bed and paced the length of the room at the foot of the bed.

Though he was sure that part of Simon's twitchy behavior was due to the relapse urges he'd been having all day, a reaction to a high-stress situation, Dean knew that he was also worried as hell about his friend. He'd taken the opportunity to dig a little bit deeper into Simon's relationship with his younger brother during the day, and discovered that Sammy hadn't really had a lot of friends at Stanford before he met Jess. Oh, he had acquaintances, but most of them worked at the library or in the Poli-Sci building. Having a girlfriend who liked to party and study in equal measure had helped his social status, but he didn't really seem to trust anyone enough to really be friends with them.

And then little Sammy started dealing, and Simon started buying, and they were inseparable. When Simon's girlfriend kicked him out of their apartment, Sam and Jess let him crash on their couch. They would hustle pool at the bar where Dean had met Simon in the first place, or they would chill at _Eden_. Sometimes they would hit parties together, or just hang out at home and watch stoner movies while they got high on the couch. Jess would always complain when they played video games into the wee hours of the morning, especially if they were supposed to have classes later in the day. Simon even convinced Sam to start weight training, to make himself more imposing 'in the field' and Sam taught Simon to defend himself with some hand-to-hand combat moves that nobody would see coming in a regular street fight.

A part of Dean was jealous that this Simon kid had been the friend Sam had always needed growing up, that they'd bonded. Though Sam and Dean would always be brothers, and they'd always had hunting, there was a certain wall that they'd always hit while navigating their nomadic childhood. Dean would have died for Sam, on a hunt or otherwise, and he'd never doubted that Sam would do the same for him. But they didn't really share common interests - they never had. Sam liked weird, independent movies, learning stuff, and preferred hunting zombies in video games. Dean liked action flicks, muscle cars, and would much rather shoot a damn zombie in real life than bother with a pixelated bastard on a television screen.

But another part of Dean was glad that Sam had found Simon. That Simon was the kind of guy who cared enough about Sam's friendship, above all the other fucked up hero-worship and physical attraction, to watch out for him. Hell, a part of him was downright relieved that he wasn't the only one in the world that didn't want Sam to screw his life all up. He actually liked the fact that someone else could see how much Sam had to offer the world when he wasn't strung out and fucked to hell. That part of him felt kind of bad for dragging his little brother away from what could be a decent, normal friendship. Well, as close to normal as any Winchester was ever going to have.

Simon opened his mouth to speak, after what felt like an eternity of silence, but was interrupted by a pounding on the motel door. "You expectin' company?" he managed to ask as Dean grabbed a pearl-handled pistol from the dresser top and tucked it into the back of his jeans. He just shook his head as he watched Dean pull the tail of his shirt over his waistband, unable to curb the memory of Sam doing the same damn thing every time they went out back in the day.

With one hand on the door handle, Dean cursed the fact that his damn motel didn't even have a peephole. Slowly pulling the door open, his heart lept into his throat. "Sam," he sighed, his shoulders visibly relaxing as his brother pushed past him and raked his hands through his dirty hair. "What the hell," he started, the tension returning, coiling low in his belly as he watched Sam's face twist and contort, his eyes flying around the room but refusing to settle on anything.

He hadn't been able to breathe for the last few hours, not since leaving Nikka's office. Hadn't been able to answer the phone when Jess called to see where he was. Hadn't been able to stop his legs from moving long enough to shoot or snort anything. Couldn't even get his shaking hands to slow enough to pull a cigarette from his pocket. "Gotta go," was all he could manage to say as he made his way to the wall and smacked a flat palm against the drywall as hard as he could. It was the first solid thing he'd felt in hours, and something about the pain that shot up his arm felt really fucking good.

Simon and Dean shared a furtive, worried glance as Sam continued to ball his fists and take ragged, painful breaths. When the taller man's eyes finally rested in the corner of the room, his brow knitted further. "Simon?" he squinted, as though he might be hallucinating.

Raising one hand sheepishly, Simon stood from his place and crossed the room, handing Sam the cigarette he'd just lit for himself. "Chill, Sam," he instructed, his own face focused as Sam took the cigarette and did as he was told.

It was a simple gesture, but one that filled Sam with an instant reminiscence. He and Simon hadn't really been friends for awhile, not since Simon had decided to get clean, but the ease with which his old friend slipped back into 'right hand man' mode felt like an old sweater sliding over his shoulders. Though it didn't help ease his mind, the feeling of simple nicotine sucking into the back of his throat did help his body to still just a bit.

"Dean," he started, turning away from Simon to face his older brother. When he'd left Nikka's office, he'd never intended to end up here, asking his brother for help. But he just couldn't see any other way. Or, rather, he didn't know anyone else who would still be willing to help him, still be there for him. "I fucked up, man," was all he could manage to croak out before the emotion pulled at his throat and he sucked another violent drag back to steady himself.

Dean leaned against the door and studied Sam's face again. In his mind, the plan was to find Sam, tell him one more time that he was too fucked up to be any good to anyone, and then give him one last chance to come along for the search to find their father. He wasn't going to bull shit, and he wasn't going to beat around the bush. It wasn't going to be easy, and he was going to expect Sam to get clean. He was going to demand it, in fact. But one look in those wet, glassy doe eyes, and Dean did what he always did with his little brother. He crumbled completely.

"What happened, Sammy?" Dean asked, moving to the bed and lowering himself to the edge. He couldn't help noticing the way that Simon's eyes never left Sam, or the way that his brother's fists relaxed every time Simon would press a gentle hand to Sam's elbow.

Gritting his teeth, Sam blew out an angry puff of smoke and raked his hand through his hair again. "Nikka's handin' a list of names over to the feds," he spat. When Dean's eyebrows shot up, he just shook his head. "Buncha low-level guys, and a few dancers," he assured his brother that he was in the clear without saying the words.

If there was one thing that Dean had learned over the years, one thing that even Simon didn't know, it was how to read between Sam's lines. He could practically read the kid's thoughts. "Jess," he whispered and Sam let out a short, sardonic chuckle. "Dude," was all that would pop into his head at the revelation.

Simon took the finished cigarette butt from Sam's fingers, and Sam crossed his arms defensively over his chest as he leaned his hip against the dresser and spoke only to his brother. "I told her not to, ya know? Thought she might actually listen to me, but," he stopped and caught his bottom lip between his teeth. "Doesn't fuckin' matter, ya know? Says she's tryin' to protect me." The word slipped from his lips and his eyes drilled into his brother's. The only person who'd ever truly protected him from anything, even when he didn't want to admit that he'd needed it.

"If she didn't do anything, though," Dean started to reason. "I mean, if Jess's not a part of it, they can't take her down, right?"

With a huff, Simon leaned at Sam's side, his arms crossed in a direct mimic of the man at his side. Sam might have come to his big brother for help, but there were things that Dean just didn't know. Things that he hadn't seen. "Don't matter, man," he explained softly. "If Nikka wants her to go down for this, she'll make it stick." Turning his face to Sam, he sighed. "Tell ya the truth, wouldn't surprise me if she orchestrated this whole fuckin' thing just to take Jess outta the picture, ya know?"

Sam didn't want to admit that Simon was right, but the thought had occurred to him more than once over the course of the last few hours. For the last year, not one allegation against the woman had stuck, and all of the sudden, the feds had a case against Nikka? She was far too careful, and had way too many cops in her back pocket, to get busted for anything. She'd worked the system for way too long. "She wouldn't do that," he whispered, more in an attempt to convince himself than anyone else in the room.

"Are you fucking kidding me, man?" Simon's sardonic laughter exploded from his chest with force and Dean looked from one of them to the other and then back again.

The wince on Sam's face was as familiar to Dean as anything else about his brother. It said that a deeply buried part of him believed what Simon was saying, even though the rest of him didn't want it to be true. "I thought you said Sam was her favorite," Dean said and then stopped himself. "Which means that Jess is in the way," he answered for himself before either of the other men could fill in the blanks.

But Sam wasn't ready to concede the point just yet. "I was with Jess before I even met Nikka," he defended, though he knew the argument was weak, at best. "She's always known about her, and she's never cared. I mean, we're just business, ya know?"

Again, Simon chuckled, though not quite as powerfully as he had a moment earlier. This time, he rolled his eyes. "Dude, you know as well as anybody that your relationship with her is not just business. She's, like, _obsessed_ with you or something. Why the hell do you think she keeps you on such a tight leash?" When Sam's shoulders heaved in a dark chuckle of his own, Simon risked a look at Dean. "She thinks of you as hers, Sam. Her property. Her _Sammy_," he echoed the words he'd heard Nikka purr at his friend on more than one occasion.

"She loves me so much, why'd she threaten to send me if I didn't let her name Jess?" Sam challenged in a last-ditch effort to prove to himself that he hadn't put his trust in the wrong place.

In Dean's mind, Sam was all of six years old again, finding out that Santa wasn't real for the first time. Crushed. Devastated. Disillusioned. And absolutely heart breaking. Standing from the bed, he wiped his hands over his pants and shook his head. "Ya know what? I, for one, don't give a flying fuck why this bitch is doin' anything she's doin'. She's messin' with the wrong fuckin' family," he hissed through clenched teeth as he stalked toward the door.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Simon demanded, stopping the man short at the front door.

Pulling his gun from his waistband, Dean cocked it once and then shot a smirk in the young man's direction. "I'ma show this bitch some protection of my own," he growled.

The determined tone of his brother's voice snapped Sam's head in Dean's direction. "Dean, you can't fuckin' shoot her," he rolled his eyes as though his brother should know better. "Just," he stopped and shook his shaggy hair, "just stop. I'm the one that started this, that let shit go way too far. Let me fix it," he pleaded without moving, knowing that puppy dog eyes worked better on Dean than they had ever worked on anyone.

True to form, Dean tossed his gun back to the bed and threw his arms up in the air in defeat. "How you gonna do that, Sam? Huh? You just said she can pretty much do whatever the hell she wants. How you gonna fix it? Please, tell me." Though he loved his little brother more than his own life, he sometimes wondered how the fool had gotten into the Ivy Leagues with such rocks for brains.

"I can't stop her," he agreed, pushing off his perch to address his brother directly, as though they were alone. Just as they had always been. "But you're headin' outta town anyway, right?" His eyes darted to Dean's duffel, already packed and sitting by the door. When Dean shrugged, Sam smiled - barely, but it was enough to show a whisper of a hope that he'd long given up on. "So take us with you."

Though it was exactly the plan from the beginning, to ride into town and ride right back out with his brother in tow, Dean shook his head. "Sam, I have to find Dad. I mean, it was gonna be hard enough with your bunt-out ass goin' through withdrawals for the next however long, but now you want me to add a civilian to the mix? Does Jess know what we do?" Clamping his mouth shut, his eyes darted to Simon, who was staring at the floor.

"No," Sam answered with a shrug. "Simon's the only one I ever told," he nodded toward the kid who echoed the gesture for Dean's benefit, as if to let the older man know he was cool with it. Not that Dean had any reason to doubt it - Simon hadn't breathed a word about hunting since Dean met him. "But, Dean, we can't leave her here. If I do that, she's going to prison," Sam reminded his brother. "Hell, once Nikka realizes I disappeared, she's gonna take that shit out on her, too. I can't leave her here," he repeated himself. It was his only condition - he would go with Dean, even help him find Dad, but Jess was part of the deal. A package. There was no way around it.

Sighing in frustration, Dean's mind raced with the possibility. They couldn't take her on a hunt. There was no damn way that a chick who didn't even know what they did to begin with was going to do anything but slow them down. And that was a best case scenario. She'd probably get them all killed without even trying. As determined as Sam was to take his girlfriend out on the road, Dean was equally set against it.

"Um," Simon interjected as the brothers stared one another down. "I might have a solution," he offered. When both boys drew their attention to his face, he lit another cigarette and eased himself onto the mattress. "I have that cabin in the mountains up in Colorado," he told Sam. They'd talked about going there someday, like on a vacation with their girls, back before both of their lives went to shit. "Since my folks passed, nobody else knows about it. Y'all could drop Jess there and then go find your dad. I mean, it ain't ideal, but nobody'd find her there."

Sighing, Sam started to tell Simon 'thanks, but no thanks.' He wasn't interested in letting his girl out of his sight for the next forty years or so. But it wasn't like they could just pack up the apartment and move on to their happy East Coast lives anymore. He might have been escaped his fucked up family for awhile, but he'd made his fair share of wrong turns in the last year. He hadn't exactly left himself a lot of options.

With a huff of concession, Sam nodded his head. Dean needed nothing else to understand his brother's thoughts. How in the hell Sam was going to convince Jess to move into some random cabin he didn't know, but that wasn't really Dean's problem. And while he hated the idea of his little brother being a fugitive from the law because of some possessive skank, he wasn't about to turn away from the chance to get Sam out of California and back into the safety of their insanely dangerous everyday lives.

"Well, let's just hope Nikka didn't pull the trigger as soon as you walked out the door," Dean finally spoke, grabbing his jacket from the edge of the bed before tucking his gun back into his pants. His duffel bag was in his hand before he looked at either of the young men again. "Move your ass, Sam. I'm guessin' we don't have a world of time." With a nod in Simon's direction, he accepted the outstretched hand of the young man. "Sorry we can't hang longer," he started.

But Simon just released Dean's hand and held his own up. "Way I see it, you got what you came for. And I know you're gonna make this guy clean up his act," he smiled at Sam, who just rolled his eyes. "So I get what I wanted, too." Moving to his friend, Simon offered the hand again. "Call me when you're on the road and I'll give you the directions, okay?"

When Sam felt Simon's hand in his, he pulled his old friend into a hug and whispered, "I owe you one," against his ear.

"Take care of yourself, Sammy," Simon instructed.

"It's Sam," he corrected with a lopsided grin, shaking Simon's hand once more before tucking his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and following his brother to the welcoming leather caress of Dad's old Impala. "Hey, Dean," he said once they'd pulled out of the parking lot.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks, man," he whispered, eyes fixed on the wide dash of the classic car. "I know I was pretty fuckin' horrible to you the last couple days. . ."

"Dude," Dean's finger shot out at the words. "No chick-flick moments," he reminded his brother of their old, steadfast rule.

Rolling his eyes, Sam rested his head against the back of the seat as Dean turned the corner onto his street. "Whatever," he managed to smile at the site of his building ahead. "Jerk," he chuckled to himself.

"Bitch."


	10. A Change of Plans

**Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall**

_A/N: Just a couple of quick things:_

_1. This is the final chapter of this story, and I want to thank everyone who's been keeping up with my alternate version of Sam and Dean. Whether you reviewed, added it to a favorites list, or just kept checking back in to take the journey with the boys, I appreciate it. It's been a long time since I enjoyed writing something this much, and to know that people are checking it out means a lot to me._

_2. The title of the story comes from a P!nk song called 'I Don't Believe You.' The entire 'Funhouse' album was kind of the inspiration, or at least the driving force, behind this story, but that song in particular - with lines like, 'It's like you're the swing set, and I'm the kid that falls' and 'I won't believe you when you say you don't need me anymore' - screamed the theme of the story to me, from both brothers' perspectives. Each of the characters in this story - Dean, Sam, Jess, Nikka, and Simon - have their own theme songs from that album. So if you have it, you're super bored, and you wanna try to figure out who goes with what song, give it a go. Hours of fun for the whole family, I tell ya._

_Anyway - that's it for me, and again, thanks for reading. I'm working on a truly AU story right now that will probably never see the light of day, but I've got another idea brewing and that one might just get posted. We'll see. For now, enjoy the conclusion of Please Don't Stand There and Watch Me Fall._

* * *

The both knew the lack of flashing lights in front of Sam's apartment complex didn't really mean anything. Cops could have already been there, for all they knew.

Forcing down the possibility that maybe he was too late, Sam fished for a way to convince his girlfriend to leave their home on a whim. Jess was going to be pissed at him for so many things, but he didn't really care. He didn't have time to apologize for all of them tonight. But by the time they settled into that cabin in Colorado, he would think of some way to make amends. Just like he always did.

He would have to come up with a way to tell Dean that he wasn't just leaving his girl in Colorado, too. That there was no way he was getting back into the damned hunt that had driven him away in the first place. This whole escape route was a means to an end, but he really didn't fucking care if he ever picked up another shot gun or an EMF meter as long as he lived. He could convince Dean that he'd give the whole 'clean and sober' thing a run, but he wasn't about to traipse around the country again. He just couldn't. If this entire night had taught him anything, it was that he didn't want to live without Jessica. And he wasn't going to, even for Dean.

When his brother killed the engine, Sam shot a look across the seat. "Stay here, okay?" he requested.

Dean's eyebrow shot up. _Stay there?_ Was Sam crazy? If he honestly thought that Dean was letting him out of his sight again, ever, he was delusional. "Dude, I can be very convincing when I wanna be," he reminded, as though his intention was to help his brother get Jess into the car.

In reality, Dean kind of hoped that Sam failed in talking Jessica into leaving with them. It would be a hell of a lot easier than trying to explain to her why she had to live in some secluded cabin while they ran off to find their father. He'd known from talking to her the night before that Jessica wasn't stupid. She hadn't gotten into Stanford by accident, after all. She was going to know something was up, and she wasn't going to just stay put because Sam asked her trust him.

"Nikka has eyes and ears everywhere, Dean," Sam sighed, his eyes darting around the parking lot for signs of a vehicle he recognized. "Probably has a few of 'em watchin' the place, in case I tip Jess off," he added. "Just keep the engine running, and if I'm not back in ten," he shook his shaggy locks, "or fifteen, bring Bree," he nodded toward the pearl-handled gun Dean had affectionately named after a girl he'd been 'dating' when Dad gave it to him back in eleventh grade.

Dean stared through the windshield as Sam loped through the parking lot. The ease with which he stopped at the door and shook hands with a couple of the shifty characters Dean had seen on his first visit bothered him somehow, but he tried to push it down. It didn't matter anymore. Sam was coming with him. His brother was leaving California, of his own choosing, and hitting the road with him once again.

Granted, the circumstances weren't the best. It wasn't like Sam wanted to get clean, or really wanted to help him find Dad. Hell, for all Dean knew, Sam had no intention of even helping him at all. But he couldn't worry about that for now. Dad had taught him at a young age that he could only attack one scary hell bitch at a time, and the first was getting Sam across the state line. He'd worry about the next one when he saw the mountains of Colorado.

Sam shook hands with the guys at the door one last time and disappeared into the building. Listening for the tell-tale signs of anything slightly off in the upstairs apartment, he approached his home and opened the door with his shoulder. He was fairly certain that she wouldn't just take off for the Delta party on her own - she hated the Deltas more than any other group on campus. The fact that she'd ever agreed to hit that party with him in the first place was a miracle in itself.

"Jess!" he called out, fighting to keep his voice even. He didn't want to scare her until it was absolutely necessary. And he was pretty sure that she wouldn't believe him if he looked freaked out, or remotely paranoid. "You home?" He had to be relaxed or she would assume that he was just high again. "JESSICA!"

The apartment wasn't that big, and when Sam couldn't find his girlfriend in the living room or the bathroom, he felt his heart beat just a little bit faster. Stepping into the bedroom, he found the bed made and undisturbed. There was no note on the pillow, telling him that she had to run out for something and that she'd be right back. Or even telling him that she was pissed as all hell that he'd disappeared for more than seven hours and that she never wanted to speak to him again. She just wasn't there.

Shit. Jessica didn't leave a room without turning out a light, let alone leave the apartment with all of them burning brightly. The fear that Nikka had already made her move slammed into his chest again as he crumpled to the bed and wiped his hands over his face. Reaching into his pocket to withdraw his cell phone, he laid back on the bed and whispered a silent prayer that she had just gone on a cigarette run or something.

But as he pressed the speed dial and lifted the phone to his ear, his eyes drifted toward the ceiling, causing everything else in the entire world to stop cold.

Like the dreams he'd been having for weeks, Jessica was staring back at him, her face a mask of terror and confusion. Drops of scarlet blood dripped from the gaping wound in her stomach onto Sam's forehead, and before he could even open his mouth to scream, a brilliant flame rippled behind the waves of her golden curls, quickly swelling around her petite body and engulfing it in easy swallow.

The deafening roar of ignition sounded around him, and the heat licked at Sam's skin, but he couldn't drag his eyes from the charring body. Just like his dreams. Just like his mom. _**RUN**_! The word screamed through his skull, but Sam couldn't respond. Or he just didn't want to.

Maybe he deserved this. After everything he'd done, every fucked up decision he'd made. After everything he'd done to push it all away. After everything he'd said to her in the face of her unwavering commitment and unconditional love. She sure as hell deserved to have him stick by her side now, as she had his for so long. He owed her that much.

Before he could surrender to the flames, Sam heard the front door being kicked open. It wasn't humanly possible for Dean to move through the apartment as quickly as he did, but he reached his brother before Sam even had time to realize he was no longer alone amidst the fire. Someone was screaming 'no' from somewhere far away, but Sam didn't realize until he'd been dragged into the hallway that the someone was him.

Dean had been intent on waiting for his brother and watching the door for the quick escape. But when he'd seen Sam cross in front of the living room window, his shoulders tense, he knew that he couldn't just sit by. When had Sammy ever known that he needed his big brother's help, after all? He'd talked one of the guys out front into letting him in and bounded up the stairs, words already in mind for charming Jess into the back of the car.

Instead, he'd heard the sound that had haunted his dreams for the last twenty-two years. The 'whoosh' that indicated the sweep of a blazing inferno. The sight of Jessica burning on the ceiling nearly made him throw up, but he couldn't stay to watch it. Just like he hadn't been able to watch Mom burn that night back in Lawrence. Dad's voice sounded in his ears once again, just like they had back then.

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now, Dean. Go!_

Sam wasn't as light as he'd been at six months, and running down the stairs with his enormous little brother in his arms had caused more than one stumble and near fall, but when he'd managed to dump Sam against the hood of the Impala, he hugged his brother's sagging form to his body and stroked his hair. It all felt far too much like a horrible rerun as he whispered, "It's okay, Sammy," against the skin of his baby brother's temple.

But unlike that night, Sam jerked upright and punched Dean in the jaw. It was a reflex, but Sam didn't want to be coddled. Nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.

He grabbed the keys from Dean's pocket and made his way to the back of the car, flinching when the flames from his apartment began shooting out of the windows, spreading throughout the top floor of the entire building. There weren't a lot of savory characters that lived around him, but not one of them deserved the hell that Sam Winchester had brought upon them. In fact, the way he saw it, he was the only one that truly deserved to burn in that fire, and he was the only one who'd been dragged out like he was worth saving.

Reaching for the shotgun in the trunk, he allowed himself to remember the sight of Jessica, a thousand times more terrifying than any of the dreams he'd been having as of late. He allowed himself to take a deep breath and, though he coughed slightly around the smoke in his lungs, he let himself smell the burning flesh of the woman he loved.

For the first time in months, he didn't consider popping a sedative, or shooting a narcotic, or snorting powdered anything. He was an addict, a junkie, and his need for a fix wasn't just going to go away. But he was also a hunter, and a Winchester. And that meant that his hunger for the rage, hatred, and vengeance of whatever bastard dared to take his mother and the woman he loved from him could be easily quenched. And until it was, he could blow the hell out of a hundred other ugly things in lieu his personal demons.

Dean waited at the front of the car for a moment, massaging the dull ache in his cheek, before moving to Sam's side at the trunk of the car. The set of his jaw, and the deliberate way in which he loaded the shotgun in his hands, was a little scarier than any look Dean had seen since he'd found his little brother. Sam was ready to explode, maybe literally, definitely more so than he had been in years. Worse, Dean's eyes grew wide as he realized, than he'd ever even seen their father.

But before he could open his mouth to speak, Sam tossed the gun into the trunk and turned cold, bitter eyes toward Dean, speaking in a low, smoke-garbled tone that seemed to cut clean through the wails of sirens and screams of residence fleeing their ashen homes.

"We've got work to do."


End file.
